A Chuckmas Carol
by Mikki13
Summary: A new twist to Dickens' beloved "A Christmas Carol". When Sarah begins to shut out the world around her, three spirits come to show her the error of her ways. Season 3 AU.
1. Stave One

**A/N: **So when I first decided that I wanted to write this story, I spent about a month reflecting on how I was going to turn our delightful Sarah into the next Ebenezer Scrooge. And when I was finished and the fic was finally written, I realized just how angsty it was going to begin. So prepare yourself for a thick dose of angst, to be quickly followed by an interesting resolution and (as always in a Mikki story) a happy ending. I hope you enjoy the ride. ;-)

**Disclaimer: **I tried to charge them once, but my credit card kept coming up declined.

**Stave One: Bryce's Ghost**

Bryce was dead. Of that, she was certain. She had been at his funeral, had stared at his casket. Had watched as he was slowly lowered into the ground, his face pale and wan against his satin pillow, his hands smooth and white against his black dress suit. Unnamed pallbearers were perched along the sidelines, an unknown minister had pronounced his life decent and worthwhile, and unidentified soldiers had placed an American flag upon his grave. And all the while, she had stood in the front row, firm and resolute, with clenched hands at her sides and a mask shielding the warring emotions threatening to emerge upon her face. Pretending like none of it mattered, like she hadn't cared about the man lying in the dark, dingy grave. Pretending like her world hadn't just been turned upside down, like every apprehension, every fear hadn't been made all too real. Pretending like she didn't feel the numbness seeping into her body, the tension knotting in her stomach, the dull ache throbbing through her chest.

_In her world, nothing is certain. Anything, _anyone_ can be ripped away within a single, life shattering moment._

But even while she drones out her emotions, even while she forces back her pain, she can't ignore the way her skin prickles at the mere proximity of the man standing by her side. The way her hand twitches when he brushes his fingers against her wrist, the way her chest constricts when he turns caring, concerned eyes to examine her guarded façade. And when a deep, heavy sigh sounds from his lips, and his arm slowly comes to rest upon her shoulders, she can't stop herself from leaning against his sure, solid frame. She can't stop the lump from rising into her throat. And she can't stop herself from thinking about everything that's just come to pass. Because even while her ex-partner, her ex-lover, her ex-_friend_ is lowered into his shadowy grave, the future still looms before the loving, innocent man in her midst, bleak and absolute and entirely uncertain. And as she takes solace in his touch, and a shadow of emotion peeks out from underneath the shield carefully guarding her bright blue eyes, she realizes with a jolt just how much everything has changed. Just how open Chuck has made himself to her world. Just how vulnerable he is to the danger lurking behind every corner, hiding within every realm. Just how possible it is that she could be at his funeral next.

So when the casket is slowly lowered into the ground, and the backs of Sarah's eyes prickle with unshed tears, she allows Chuck to rest his cheek against the top of her head. She allows him to splay his fingers over her bare shoulder, the soft pads of his fingertips kneading her smooth skin. And she allows him to whisper, "I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm sorry for everything."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Chuck," she murmurs, swallowing back the lump which has grown within her throat. "It's not your fault."

But even while she says it, and even while she continues to lean into his touch, she can't help but wonder what it is that he's sorry for.

~*~

_Jingle. Chime. Clink. Jangle. Clang._

A world of wonder spreads out across the busy Burbank shopping mall, its many shops and restaurants each decorated with a wide array of gleaming lights, glistening garland, and glittering pine trees. The wintry wind blows through the bustling parking lot, turning the cheeks of flustered shoppers a rosy pink and causing them to burrow their hands deep within their jacket pockets. A display of reindeer prances across the Buy More's roof, a cluster of elves rings bells and collects donations at the entrance of every major store, and a jolly Santa Clause perches upon his garland-bedecked throne, waiting for wide-eyed children to confide their ideal gifts. It's the quintessential Christmas Eve, full of cheer and excitement and even a few carolers.

But across the street, sequestered inside a vacant yogurt shop, a blonde spy pretends as if she doesn't notice the scene outside her large glass window. With furrowed brow and pursed lips, she stands poised over the pristine counter, a battered sponge held tightly in her clenched fist. Her shoulders hunched and her muscles tense, she scours the linoleum, scrubbing every surface, cleansing every corner, polishing every crevice until it shines unlike it's ever shined before. But even as she does so, even as the water pools around her taut knuckles and bits of sponge flake out of her hands and onto the floor, she can't stop the thoughts from flooding her head. She can't stop the memories from coursing through her mind, the recollections from threading through her thoughts.

And even as she wills herself to stay focused, even as she continues to throw every movement, every effort, every bit of energy into remaining in the present, into forgetting the past, into keeping her mind blank, her thoughts detached, she realizes that the effort is futile. That no matter how hard she tries to forget, she will always inevitably remember. She will always inevitably find herself reeling backward six months in time. To when she first realized just how much had actually changed. To when she first started to shelve her emotions, to hide her desires, and to throw herself into training the man currently hard at work in the room beneath her feet. The man who's life rests on her shoulders. So as she returns to their first training session now, she realizes that she's not even surprised.

"_Okay," Sarah says, her jaw tight. "This is a –"_

"_A staff," Chuck interrupts, stepping onto the mat. "I know."_

_She tenses at his overly eager tone, at the way he bounces a little too enthusiastically when he eyes the weapon within her hand. For a moment, she almost considers calling off the lesson. Telling him to go home. Maybe even yelling at him for the reckless way he seems to be entering his training. Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he know that this can all come to an end, that the world can come crashing down within the space of a single second? That within minutes, he could end up just like Bryce? That if that happened, if he got hurt, if he _died _and she lost him, then her life would never be the same?_

_Gritting her teeth, tightening her fists, she pushes these thoughts aside. Because she can't do this. She can't allow herself to succumb, to surrender, to let Chuck know what it is that she's really thinking. What it is that she's really feeling. She has to keep it together, or there will be no coming back. And if there's no coming back, if she gives into the swell of emotions racing through her veins, then she won't be able to protect him. She won't be able to keep him safe. And as General Beckman so clearly stated no more than a day before, Chuck's safety depended on her. It was up to her to teach him to be a real spy. Even if the very idea of Chuck being a real spy causes her heart to twist as her world turn quickly and irreversibly upside down._

"_Yeah," Sarah returns, forcing the thoughts from her mind as she tightens her jaw and throws Chuck the staff. "It's a staff. Now get ready to use it." Her chest constricts when he catches it easily in midair, almost as if he's been staff fighting all of his life. And when he stares at the weapon hard, his forehead creasing with the effort, she bites back a groan when she sees the Intersect 2.0 immediately kick into effect. Because even though she knows she should be grateful, even relieved that the computer inside his head is at least functional, it's just another factor that will add to his continued journey down this tumultuous path._

"_Okay," he says easily, interrupting her thoughts as he crouches into a fighting stance while his hands quickly find their purchase on the smooth piece of wood. "I'm ready."_

"_You're ready?" Sarah repeats, slipping into her own fighting stance. "For what, Chuck?" she asks, looping the staff into a half circle arc. "To play? To spar? To pretend to fight?" _To put your entire life, your entire future in danger? To enter a world that you never should have been a part of in the first place? A world that I was ready to leave before you thrust us both back into it without a second's thought?

_Chuck blinks at her tone, and she feels a twinge of guilt when she notices the hurt waft across his face. But then she remembers why they're here, and she thinks about General Beckman's orders, and she takes a quick step in his direction, moving the staff in a brisk upward arc. "What are you ready for, Chuck?" she challenges._

"_I'm ready to learn," Chuck returns, parrying her strike and reengaging with one of his own. "I'm ready to be a spy."_

_For some reason, the statement causes Sarah's stomach muscles to knot. "Really?" she counters, blocking his movement by swinging the staff into a rapid downward arc. "You want to be a real spy?"_

_Chuck blocks her movement, their staffs connecting with a dull _thwack _as his eyes narrow in resentment and pain. "I _am_ a real spy," he says._

_Her heart drops as she looks into his face, as she registers the emotion reflected within his deep brown gaze. And when she thinks about the fact that his words are all to true, and when she flashes upon an image of a pale, motionless man, staring into nothingness with unseeing bright blue eyes, she suddenly realizes that she can't do this anymore. At least not right now. At least not today. "Fine, Chuck," she snaps, breaking eye contact by whirling around and bringing her staff colliding into his own with a loud _smack_. "You want to be a real spy? You want to enter this world? Then you'd better stop talking and start training."_

_And with that, the two fall back into the heated rhythm of faux battle, the sounds of their staffs communicating far more than the silence of their words or their complete lack of eye contact. And even though Sarah knows that she wouldn't feel this way if it were anyone else, and even though she understands, at least partially, why Chuck threw himself into this situation, it doesn't stop the chilly fingers of fear from flowing through her frame, or the sharp bristle of remorseful regret from cutting her to the core. It doesn't stop the fierce desire to train Chuck as she's never trained anyone in her life. And it doesn't stop her from retreating into her calm, detached shell, her fortified defenses bolstered once more as she falls into the life into which she has suddenly found herself._

_It's only later, when the silence between them becomes thick and the walls between them become nearly tangible that she begins to realize just how much they stand to lose. But then, she tells herself that it's too late. That they've already made their decisions, they've already chosen their path. They've already reached the path of no return. And that Chuck's safety is more important than any relationship they might have had._

_Even if maybe she misses him more than she'll ever admit._

Sarah starts when the bell above the door jangles and chimes, the unexpected intrusion jarring her from her memories. And when she notices the tall brunette striding into the shop, a cheerful smile spread across her face, she blinks in surprise and quickly pastes on a smile of her own. "Ellie," she greets, pausing in her scouring of the linoleum. "Hi."

"Hi, Sarah," Ellie replies, a troubled hue coloring her deep hazel eyes. "What are you doing working on Christmas Eve?"

"Oh, you know," Sarah replies off-handedly. "It's the busiest day of the shopping season."

Ellie quirks a brow and looks around the vacant yogurt shop, and Sarah has to stop herself from rolling her eyes at her lame excuse. "I can see that," the doctor says drily, her lips curving upward into a smirk as her gaze returns to Sarah's face.

"Oh, well," Sarah replies easily, her skin prickling slightly under the intensity of Ellie's stare. Inadvertently, her gaze drops to the counter, and she finds herself slipping back into scrubbing the counter, almost thankful for the excuse to divert her attention. "Things are slowing down for the day."

Ellie studies her for a long moment, the turbulence growing more prevalent within her gaze. Finally, taking a deep breath, she moves closer to the counter, concerned creases forming around the corners of her eyes. "Listen," she says quietly, "I just wanted to invite you to Christmas dinner. We've all missed having you around lately."

Despite herself, a wistful pang echoes through Sarah's chest and she tucks her lips against the hidden emotion threatening to peek out from the shield guarding her features. "Oh, I'd love to," she replies blithely, swiping at an imaginary speck as she racks her mind for an excuse. "But I think I'm going to avoid Christmas this year," she finally says. "All this commercialism is just a little too much, you know? Besides, I'm pretty busy . . ." _With work? With training? With polishing my knife collection?_ Jogging her mind for an explanation, she finally shrugs and tries not to wince when Ellie's expression turns heavily skeptical.

"You're going to skip Christmas because of commercialism and a vacant yogurt shop?" she demands, frowning slightly. And in that moment, Sarah realizes just how far she's come from six months earlier, just how much has changed in her relationship with the Bartowskis. Her chest constricts at the thought, at the realization that everything is different. That nothing is the same. Everything she thought her life would become, every happiness she almost had, has crumbled, leaving her standing in a vacant yogurt shop, lying to a woman who she once considered a friend. And yet she can't seem to bring herself to stop.

"It's just not really my thing, Ellie," she replies quickly, guardedly, her smile tightening as a twinge of guilt courses through her slender frame. "But thanks for the invitation."

Unfortunately, it seems that Ellie's not willing to give up quite so easily. Placing her hands onto the shining linoleum counter, she leans toward the blonde spy as her features turn serious. "You know, Sarah," she says earnestly, and the woman in question suddenly feels trapped within her gaze, "I'm not quite sure what's going on between you and my brother. I don't know if something happened, or if you're growing apart, or if you two had a fight." She bites her lower lip, and Sarah can almost see the thoughts forming within her mind, the battle being played out within her head. Ellie has rarely confronted her about Chuck, and when she has, she's been careful to keep a safe distance. But now, as she leans against the counter of the Orange Orange, her fingers digging into the tile, Sarah suddenly understands that she's not going to back down. "Chuck misses you, Sarah," she finally says, her words firm, distinct. "He hasn't been the same for the last few months. And I know it would mean a lot to him if you came to dinner."

The mask upon Sarah's face wavers and shifts as the yearning ache intensifies within her chest, the deep longing that she's finding harder to ignore. Curling her hands into fists, she swallows against her sudden wave of emotions. "Ellie, thank you for the invitation," she says firmly, her features still guarded, her tone slightly detached. "If I can make it, I promise that I will."

Again, Ellie studies her, a shadow wafting over her face as a hardened layer forms over her eyes. "Please make sure that you do," she says, her friendly tone tinged with a touch of ice. "Chuck deserves to have you there."

Even as she says it, Sarah can hear the hidden meaning behind the words. _Chuck deserves to have a girlfriend who actually wants to be with him, who doesn't make ridiculous excuses not to spend Christmas by his side. Who doesn't hide behind a mask, who doesn't erect unshakable walls, who doesn't make him wonder and wait for years at a time. Who doesn't pretend like she doesn't miss him as much as he misses her._

And even though she secretly agrees, and despite the fact that the ache is still prevalent, that the pain is still real, that she wants nothing more than to spend Christmas with Chuck's family, with the family she's never known, Sarah simply nods. "I will," she says quietly. "I promise."

~*~

Sarah's footsteps echo loudly down the stairs, the metallic click of her heels beating a steady rhythm into the basement of Castle. Her gaze is distant, her expression aloof. And even though her conversation with Ellie is still prevalent within her mind, and despite the fact that she still feels the distinct longing for something she knows she can never have, she can't help but tense at the sight that greets her when she enters the room. Chuck is standing in the center of the training area, his gloved fists raised and his feet beating a natural, steady circle around his sparring partner. His face is flushed and beads of sweat glisten upon his forehead, yet he appears to be holding his own. Worse, he appears to be having fun, to be enjoying the situation into which he's found himself. To be relishing the fight. Clenching her jaw, Sarah ignores the way her chest tightens, the way her heart squeezes, instead crossing her arms and staring hard at the scene before her.

"Is that all you've got?" Casey goads, motioning to Chuck with a gloved hand. "We're never gonna beat the Ring if you can't learn to do better than that."

"Easy," Chuck returns, a wide grin spreading over his face. And even though he misses Casey entirely, his fist connecting with solid air as the NSA Agent sidesteps the blow, the blithe light remains in his eyes.

"Come on, Bartowski," Casey prods, blocking Chuck's next punch, "If you don't learn to punch, we're gonna be here all day."

Chuck's grin falters slightly, a hint of determination wafting across his face. Bobbing in place, he directs a jab to Casey's cheek, the determination intensifying when the Agent sidesteps him again. "You know, Casey," he states, blocking the other man's cross hook, "This might be easier if you were a little nicer. I mean, would it kill you to be friendly?"

"Tell you what," Casey returns, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, "You stop punching like a girl, and I'll stop stepping on your lady feelings." Blocking another of Chuck's punches, he chuckles and raises his fists again.

The scene is too much for Sarah. Shaking her head, she slips off her heels and grabs her boxing gloves from the shelf. "Casey," she interrupts, purposely avoiding Chuck's gaze when he turns to her with a hopeful gleam within his eyes. "Why don't you take a break? I'll take it from here."

"Fine," Casey grunts, tugging at the velcro of his leather gloves. "I have to get going anyway."

"Where are you going?" Chuck asks, arching his brows even as he continues to watch Sarah's movements. The feel of his intent eyes upon her back causes her to shiver slightly, even as she keeps her blank mask firmly in place.

"Flying out to see my Mom," Casey replies nonchalantly, stepping across the mat to place his gloves onto a nearby table. "Christmas dinner."

"Wow, Casey," Chuck drawls, his face falling slightly when he realizes that Sarah isn't going to look in his direction. "I didn't realize you actually did normal."

"Mom's cooking turkey and stuffing," the NSA agent replies, shrugging as he slips into his jacket. "It's worth the ordeal."

"I didn't know you and your mom were so close," Chuck chirps, glancing at Sarah as she takes her place on the mat. "Were you planning on introducing us, Casey?"

Snorting, Casey smirks. "Keep dreaming, Bartowski," he returns, then nods toward Sarah. "See you on the twenty-sixth, Walker." And with that, he glances between the both of them again, a slightly disturbed, knowing look within his eyes, then nods twice more before heading toward the steps and departing Castle, leaving Chuck and Sarah alone behind him.

When the door finally closes with a bang and she's left alone with Chuck, Sarah thumps her fists together before anything else can be said. "Let's go, Chuck," she orders, motioning to the other side of the mat. When he turns to her with those same intense brown eyes, she purses her lips, attempting to ignore the way her pulse increases under the weight of his stare.

"It's Christmas, Sarah," Chuck replies, his tone slightly plaintive even as he follows orders and crosses to the other side. "Can't we leave early?"

"No, we can't," Sarah returns, her face hardening. "You're the one that chose this life, Chuck. Now it's your job to train." And even though she knows it's unfair, and despite the fact that she understands the sacrifice he made when he downloaded the Intersect, she doesn't back down. She doesn't retract her statement, she doesn't give up the fight. Instead, she continues bobbing on the mat, her fists raised and her eyes hard as a shadow of hurt washes over Chuck's face.

"But I have been training," he retorts, raising his fists to block Sarah's upper cut. Unfortunately, it appears that the Intersect has stopped working momentarily, and he winces when she easily connects with his jaw. "I've trained every day for the last six months."

"It doesn't matter, Chuck," Sarah counters, smoothly blocking his cross strike. "It doesn't count. You're still missing punches, you're still messing up blocks. You're still not getting it right." _You're still completely vulnerable to the Ring, still completely open to attack. You can still be ripped from this place, from this world, from this _life_ at any given minute of any given day. You can still be taken away from _me_ at any time._

This last thought pierces her mind, infiltrating her thoughts, tearing away at her defenses. And before she can stop herself, before she can hide behind her mask, before she can shield her emotions, a flicker of fear, of panic, of deep-seated longing enters her eyes. Taking a deep, slightly shaky breath, she attempts to harden her gaze, to disguise her weakness. To bury her pain. Unfortunately, she's already too late. Stopping his momentum, Chuck's hands fall to his side, his own brown depths suddenly fixed upon her bright blue gaze.

"Sarah," he says softly, taking a step toward the blonde as his own eyes glint with emotion. "What is this really about?"

Swallowing gently, her stomach knotting at his proximity, Sarah's gaze flickers to a spot just over Chuck's left shoulder, her features guarded. "It's about the need to train, Chuck," she says, the sharp edge fading from her voice. "It's about being ready to take down the Ring, to fight the war." _To stay alive._

He stares at her for a long moment, and she can almost sense the conflicting desires within his mind. He's always held back, he's rarely made the first move. He's always allowed her to take the lead, even when she might have taken the wrong path. But now, as he stares at her with countless emotions radiating from his cinnamon gaze, as the tension between them crackles and thickens, almost tangible within the dank, dingy air of the Castle, she has to stop herself from hiding. From running. From putting up a hand to stop his forward momentum, to stop him as he moves ever closer to her on the mat. "I think there's more to it than that," he says quietly, pulling his gloves from his hands. "Please, Sarah. Talk to me."

"There's nothing to say, Chuck," she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. "Things are the way they are, and now we need to focus."

A shadow flickers across his face, a hint of something deeper that she can't quite put her finger on. And when he next speaks, when the statement falls from his mouth and sounds in the air between them, she finds herself starting in surprise. "I'm sorry," he says, echoing the sentiment from six months earlier.

Despite herself, Sarah's eyes swivel to lock upon Chuck's intense gaze. "What are you sorry for?" she asks softly, her breath hitching when finally she notices the emotion pooled within his eyes.

"For everything," Chuck replies, shrugging. He places his bare hand upon her arm, causing her to tense even while a prickle of electricity courses through her skin. "For Bryce. For this. For keeping you here when you wanted to leave."

_For keeping her here?_ The apology jars her to the quick, causing her to blink as her mask momentarily slips away. "You don't have anything to apologize for, Chuck," she states firmly, goose bumps breaking onto her skin as he traces a path with his thumb. "It's not your fault that Bryce died."

"But it's my fault that you're still here," he counters, his hand still warm upon her arm. "It's my fault that you had to stay."

Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he understand that she's staying for _him_? She opens her mouth to ask, to inquire, to demand if he really understands. If he knows how much she's given up just so that she can keep him safe. Just so she can protect him, just so she can keep him alive. But then the same shadow that's been following her for the past six months quickly descends, eclipsing her thoughts and blotting out her desires. Stopping her before she can really say what it is that she needs to say. Pursing her lips, she quickly looks away, the moment lost among so many other random pieces of personal debris. It's only when Chuck's shoulders slump and his arm drops to his side that she swallows and wills herself to look back into his eyes.

"Why won't you let me in?" he murmurs, the pain clear upon his face.

_Because I can't._ "Because there's nothing else to say," she insists again, and then turns her back when the emotion upon his face becomes too much to bear. Ripping her gloves from her hands, her shoulders tense when she hears his defeated sigh. Still, she continues: "Bryce is dead, you downloaded the Intersect, and I'm still here. It's over, Chuck. We need to move on."

She can feel his eyes upon her, feel their chocolaty depths fixated upon her every movement. A wild rush of longing floods her chest, a crazy burst of hope that he won't back off, that he won't go away, that he'll force her to finally come clean. But when she hears his footsteps vibrate through the dim underground room, when she hears the soft thump of his gloves hitting the table, followed by the jangle of his keys as he pulls them from his pocket, the hope is quickly replaced by the familiar ache of yearning and regret.

"I'd love it if you'd come for Christmas," he says to her tense back, his tone dejected and faint. "I know it's not really your thing, and that you haven't really celebrated in the past. But I promise that you'll have fun. And it would mean a lot to me if you were there."

Even though he can't see it, even though he's staring wearily at the floor, his converses etching a disjointed pattern upon the concrete, Sarah's resolve falters and her guarded mask slips once more. She opens her mouth to say something, to respond, perhaps even to accept. But before she can say a word, before she can even form a sentence within her mind, a pair of lifeless blue eyes flashes within her head, followed immediately by a pale, unmoving face and the sound of her own voice piercing the still, rancid air. And suddenly, the image of Bryce morphs and shifts, replaced by another man. A man with clear, innocent eyes and a wide, innocent grin. A man who means so much more to her than she's willing to admit. And before she realizes what's happening, she's blinking away her vulnerability, hiding behind her shield, and shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Chuck," she says quietly. "I can't."

The sigh which next escapes his lips causes her to cringe and her heart to twist. "I understand," he whispers. "But I'll save a place for you just in case." And then he heads for the stairs, and his footsteps reverberate dully through the underground chamber, fading as he climbs ever higher and ever farther from Sarah's side. But just as he's about to leave, just as the door closes shut behind him, his voice drifts distinctly down the stairs. "I miss you, Sarah," he says. "I miss you all the time."

And then the door swings shut behind him, leaving Sarah alone in the dim, cold room.

~*~

The chill wind assaults her cheeks and turns her nose red as she steps out into the brisk, wintry day, her hands buried deep inside her jacket pockets and her body hunched against the cold. Her jacket zipped tightly around her slender frame, Sarah steps across the busy square, her brow furrowed against her thoughts, against the pulsing emotions she's still attempting to conceal deep inside. And when she finds herself being pulled along by crowds of people, and jostled by enthusiastic shoppers and eager children, she barely notices the scenes unfolding around her. The only thing that registers, the only thing that even permeates her consciousness is the sound of Chuck's voice as he left her in Castle, the look on his face when she refused to open up, and the way his shoulders slumped in defeat.

So when the distinct chords of a piano and the rhythmic sounds of singing begin to vibrate in the air around her, it takes a moment for her to realize where they're coming from. And it takes her even longer to realize who it is that's making the noise.

"God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay," comes the shrill voice, and Sarah blinks when she realizes that it's Lester who's singing. She quickly steps further away from the display, trying to blend into the crowd. Unfortunately, he appears to notice her at the exact same time, and stops his song before it can progress even further.

"Sarah," he says brightly, abandoning his microphone even while Jeff grunts in disappointment. "How are you doing this fine Christmas Eve?"

"Larry," Sarah replies, shrugging out from under his arm as he slips it around her shoulders. "What are you up to?"

"Lester," he reminds her, running his hand over his chest in an effort to feign nonchalance at Sarah's obvious dismissal. "And we're procuring some capital for our holiday festivities," he continues, gesturing toward the red collecting tin currently hosting a "Salvation Army" sign.

"Yeah," Jeff blurts, nodding dully. "You can never have enough money for alcohol enhanced festivities."

Sarah's eyes narrow, her lips parting as she stares at the collecting tin. "Wait a second," she says slowly, her cheeks flushing with mild anger as a passerby tosses a few coins into the pot. "You're taking money for your own celebration?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it _taking_," Lester replies, slightly flustered when a few shoppers stop and stare.

"Right," Jeff cuts in, leaning his elbows upon the keyboard. "Just borrowing. Without returning."

"And besides," Lester continues quickly, "We're giving free entertainment. It's like a mutual exchange of interests. A sharing of assets, if you will."

"A sharing of assets," Sarah repeats, pursing her lips as she glances between the two idiots positioned on the sidewalk. Something about the situation, about the sign positioned precariously upon their collecting tin causes her to bristle, causes her fists to tighten as her fingernails form tiny half-moon indentations upon her palms. And in that moment, she's transported back in time, to a point when she was just 15-years old, bundled tightly in a jacket and following her father's every move.

"_Come on, Angel," Jack Burton coaxes, smiling devilishly as they stealthily enter the Salvation Army for their latest holiday scam. "They can't miss what they never had."_

"_But it's stealing, Daddy," Jenny replies, her face screwed up in guilt. "Shouldn't we take from the people who don't really need it?"_

"_Aw, no one needs presents on Christmas," Jack whispers, ducking around a corner when a worker passes them in the hall. "And _we_ really need the money. Now come on. We have to get this over with before we're caught."_

_And with that, her father moves discreetly down the hall, Sarah's younger version reluctantly following along in his wake. It's only later, when the presents have been sold and the money collected, that she finds the article wedged in the trash. A picture of a thin, frail child peeks up at her from the paper, along with the blaring title: "ORPHANS SWINDLED OUT OF CHRISTMAS PRESENTS."_ _And when she reads the story, and she discovers how many children went without a Christmas, the guilt solidifies within her gut and she can't stop the angry prickle of tears from forming behind her bright blue eyes._

Wrenching herself back to the present, Sarah clenches her jaw and extracts her hand from her pocket, reaching out to grab Lester's shirt collar, and pulling him to her. "I'll tell you what," she whispers roughly into his ear, "You give this to the real Salvation Army _right now_, and I won't alert law enforcement."

"What?" Lester stutters, his eyes flying wide. "But –"

"_Right now_," Sarah repeats, glaring at the nerd.

"Fine," Lester replies, pulling away from Sarah and straightening his shirt. "Okay. We'll do it."

"You'd better," Sarah states meaningfully, giving him a long, pointed look. And then she turns on her heel, disappearing back into the crowd of shoppers. But before she's fully out of earshot, before the two men have disappeared from sight, she distinctly hears them mutter, "Who died and made her Scrooge?"

"Bah humbug," Sarah mutters, rolling her eyes as she watches them hand over the collecting tin. And even though she's not sure what got into her, and despite the fact that she wants nothing more than to get home, to get into her hotel room, and to go to sleep, she can't deny the feeling of satisfaction that flows through her chest.

~*~

Sarah's stomach drops as the elevator zooms closer to her floor, the low hum of the engine echoing through the enclosed space while the gentle vibration of the floor plays against the soles of her feet. Her mind is a million miles away, images of Chuck and Ellie and even the Buy More idiots threading through her thoughts. And when the elevator finally comes to a stop, and the doors slide open with a _clink_, it takes her a moment to realize that she's reached her destination. And it takes her even longer to push off the metallic wall and exit the machine.

Trudging down the long hallway, her footfall muffled by the plush carpet under her feet, Sarah fumbles lazily for her keys, staring blankly at the path ahead. Still caught up in her thoughts, she doesn't even notice the change in temperature as steps closer to her room, or the way the hair on the back of her neck slowly begins to rise. She doesn't notice the way her breath suddenly emerges in cloudy wisps, or the way goose bumps break out onto her skin.

So when she extracts the key from her pocket, when she places it into the lock and her hand closes in upon the cool metallic knob, she almost misses the sight that greets her eyes. She almost misses the way the knob alters and shifts, morphs and stirs. It's only when she begins to turn the knob that her breath catches in her throat and she jumps back, her eyes going wide. Staring at the place where her hand had rested no more than a few seconds before, she takes in the strange features etched into the lock – the strange features that look strangely like those of a man who died six months earlier. And when she finally realizes what she's seeing, when she finally notices the face that has become a part of her doorknob, her heart begins to hammer within her chest.

"_Bryce_," she breathes, her hand rising toward the knob. Her fingers curl around the tarnished piece of metal, her thumb brushing against what appears to be her ex-partner's brow. But just as she touches the cool brass, just as she leans forward to study the mysterious features, the metal shifts once more and the face dissolves.

Shaking her head, Sarah's eyes narrow as she gazes in bewilderment at her doorknob. And then a skeptical laugh slips from her lips, and she rolls her eyes. "Get it together, Sarah," she murmurs, finally slipping the key into the lock and turning the knob. But even as she steps into her room, even as she tells herself that the image was caused by lack of sleep and the difficult day she's just endured, she can't ignore the strange prickling of her skin or the way Bryce's face remains fixated within her mind. Tossing her keys onto her nightstand, she grabs her nightshirt, determined to get into bed before any other odd occurrences can happen.

And then the knives on her dresser suddenly start to shake, and the water in her goldfish bowl suddenly begins to slosh over the side, and her shoulders tense, her jaw drops and she backs toward her armchair, her eyes scanning the room for any further signs of disturbance. Which is when the tinny, clanking sounds of metal begin to sound from far away, gradually becoming closer until the noise is almost deafening. Gripping the sides of her chair, her forehead turns slightly clammy. "What the hell is happening?" she mutters hoarsely, disengaging one hand so that she can reach for the knife sheathed upon her ankle.

Almost immediately, a low wail echoes through her room, growing in pitch until it joins the tinny clanking in one discordant, ear shattering rhythm. Slipping her knife from its sheathe, Sarah flexes her jaw and points the sharp, jagged blade toward her door, even though she has no idea what it is she's waiting to attack. And when a vapory mist starts to float through her door, followed quickly by long, heavy chains, succeeded almost immediately by what almost appears to be a solid figure, she hurls the knife at the specter, the blade quivering as it moves easily through her mark and directly into the wall behind him.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Bryce queries, finishing his journey through the wall and glancing at the knife with raised brow.

"Bryce?" Sarah whispers, paling slightly as her eyes widen. "Is that you?" Standing slowly from her chair, she takes a few steps toward the apparition, her hand rising in midair as her eyes rake his shimmery visage.

"Hi, Sarah," Bryce greets her, smiling softly. "It's been awhile."

"It _is _you," she says, continuing to gaze at the man who has suddenly entered her room. His hair is neatly combed, a black suit decorates his muscular frame, and his eyes are sad yet friendly. For a moment, Sarah's lips begin to quirk upward into a smile, a thrill of happiness coursing through her frame. But then she continues to study him, she continues to stare, and several other things become readily apparent. She notices that he's floating before her, his feet seemingly dragging along the floor. She realizes that a blue tint colors his image, making him appear ghastly and ethereal. And finally, she recognizes that countless chains weigh heavily upon his pale form, causing his shoulders to hunch as they pool on the floor around him. "I don't understand, Bryce," she finally says, "What's going on? How are you here? And why are you covered in chains?"

"Hey, hey," Bryce replies, holding up a hand, "One question at a time."

"Okay," Sarah says, backing toward the chair as her knees turn slightly weak. "What's going on?"

"I could ask you the same question," Bryce returns, his chains clanking as he crosses his arms. When she stares at him blankly, he continues. "I thought you had everything figured out?"

"I'm sorry?" Sarah answers faintly, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm her racing pulse.

"You and Chuck, Sarah," Bryce clarifies. "You and the CIA. You and your life. What the hell happened?"

Her lips parting, Sarah stares at Bryce in dumbfounded consternation, his question barely registering within her mind. But when he continues to study her, when he continues to look at her with a pained light in his eyes, she finally answers. "A lot has happened since you died, Bryce," she replies, her features hardening. "It's not that simple." _And I'm sitting here, talking to a ghost._ Clearly, things weren't cut and dry.

"Come on, Sarah," Bryce returns, "It's not that difficult, either."

A jolt of annoyance prickles within Sarah's gut, and she narrows her eyes. "Bryce, you've been dead for the last six months," she counters. "What do you know about it?"

"I know that you've never been good at this part," he replies, his own features hardening. "I know that you had everything figured out, and then when I died, you closed down and shut everyone out. And I know that I don't want you to end up like me."

"Like you?" Sarah demands, her annoyance fading to be replaced by a twinge of confusion. Unbidden, her eyes travel once more to the chains wrapped tightly around his frame, to the binds holding him fixed to the floor. "Bryce, what happened to you? Why are you wearing those chains?"

"They're the chains I forged in life, Sarah," Bryce replies simply, shrugging. "The binds that keep me forever tied to this world, even when I'd rather move on."

"I don't understand," Sarah repeats, her chest clenching at the wan look that wafts across his face. "The binds that keep you tied to this world?" _This is insane. I have to be dreaming. This has to be some sort of odd nightmare. Or maybe indigestion, caused by those french fries I had for lunch._ But still, she continues to look at Bryce, continues to wait for him to talk. To wait for what he has to say.

Sighing, Bryce floats to the other side of the room, turning his back on the blonde spy as his chains clank along the carpet. "In life, I was your partner," he finally says, his tone taking on a distant quality. "Your lover," he continues, a hint of warmth joining the distance in his voice. "In death, I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, yard by yard, regret by regret and mistake by mistake." He whirls around, and Sarah immediately notices the desperation reflected within his eyes. "Sarah, I created this thing of my own free will," he states, grabbing onto the chain before allowing it to crash onto the floor with a deafening _BANG_. "And the only way I'm going to get rid of it, the only way I'm going to keep you from forging one of your own, is by helping you now."

"Helping me?" Sarah repeats, her brow furrowing. "Helping me with what?"

Taking a deep breath, Bryce pushes himself away from the wall and heads quickly to her side, clanking and clanging along the way. When he finally reaches her, when he finally looks into her skeptical, troubled gaze, his pale blue eyes reflect his pain. "I spent my life hiding from what I truly wanted, Sarah," he confides heatedly. "I spent years chasing the wrong thing. I don't want you to do the same thing."

A shadow passes across Sarah's face, and she forces her features into a neutral expression. "I don't know what you're talking about, Bryce," she replies, her words carefully guarded.

"Come on, Sarah," Bryce wheedles, a hint of disappointment joining the rawness of his pain. "I came all the way back from the grave to warn you. The least you can do is be honest with yourself."

Sarah's chest constricts at his admonition, an edge of undiluted emotion entering her eyes. "I don't have time to be honest with myself," she states simply. "I have a job to do."

A huff of exasperation escapes Bryce's lips, and he shakes his head. "That's just it, Sarah," he returns. "It's my reliance on the job that did this to me." At the word 'this,' he again lifts his arms and rattles his chains, the sound cutting sharply through the room. "My reliance on the job that took away everything I ever wanted. Everything I ever needed," his expression softens slightly as he gazes at his ex-partner. "But there are more important things in life. You _have_ to realize that."

"Like what?" Sarah prods, her throat constricting as her features harden.

He pauses, the hurt in his voice spilling over onto his face. "Like love, Sarah," he says quietly, his words strained. "Like a future."

Sarah blinks, caught off guard by his statement. "Love?" she repeats, surprised.

"You love Chuck, Sarah," he states, and she knows that it isn't a question. "You were prepared to leave the job for him. What the hell happened?"

It's the second time he's asked the question, the second time he's demanded her accountability. Only this time, the words slice through her guard, cut through her defenses, and cause her to explode. "He downloaded the Intersect, Bryce," she returns, too heated to focus on the fact that her ex-boyfriend, her ex-_lover_, is urging her to find love with his best friend. "He became my asset. I became his handler."

"I don't buy that," Bryce replies, perching himself on the edge of a nearby chair as he echoes Chuck's words from earlier that evening. "I think there's something more going on. Something more that you're not admitting to yourself."

"And what gives you that idea?" she demands, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You never have been very good at this," he states, sighing. Unfortunately, it's exactly the wrong thing to say.

"I don't have time for love, Bryce," she snaps, clenching her jaw. "I'm too busy trying to keep the world from ending."

It's clearly not what he wanted to hear. "The world isn't going to end if you're not there to protect it," Bryce retorts, his eyes flashing. "It's going to keep right on going."

"Try telling that to Beckman," she snaps. "Try telling that to Chuck, when I'm too emotionally vested to keep him safe."

The name of his friend acts as a silencer where the topic before had not. Seeming to fold in upon himself, Bryce lets out a ragged sigh and drops his hands to his sides, the increasingly familiar clinking sound reverberating through the room. "Fine," he says tiredly, shaking his head. "If that's the way you want it. But you should know that this won't stop with me."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Sarah exclaims, glaring at him.

"Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits," Bryce continues, and the whispery quality of his tone sends a shiver up Sarah's spine.

"Three spirits," she repeats, slightly dismayed when her voice wobbles. _I'm never eating french fries again._

"Three spirits," Bryce nods, holding up three fingers. "The first will arrive when the clock strikes one, the second when the clock strikes two, and the third –"

"When the clock strikes three?" Sarah interrupts helpfully, and she gives him a peachy smile even despite the way her muscles are knotting.

"Exactly," Bryce replies smartly.

"And here I was hoping to get some sleep," she says drily, shaking her head. Even so, she can't suppress a shiver when he continues to stare at her as if everything is perfectly normal, as if everything is exactly the way it should be. As if she really should expect three visitors during the night.

"You always were too tough for your own good," Bryce states quietly, sighing. "Just make sure that you listen to what they have to say, Sarah. This could be your only chance."

"What do –" But before she can finish her statement, before the words can even leave her lips, Bryce suddenly gives her one last look before shimmering into nothingness, the clanking of his chains fading into the night. "Take care of yourself," is the parting whisper, reverberating through the room and caressing Sarah's ears.

Her breath hitching, Sarah stares at the spot Bryce just vacated with a hint of fear flooding into her eyes. And when she finally drags herself out of her chair, and begins her nightly rituals to get ready for bed, the visit is still all too fresh within her mind.


	2. Stave Two

**Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits**

Gentle rays of moonlight pool through Sarah's window pane, gently illuminating the plush carpeting and playing along the edges of her bed. Shifting in her sleep, Sarah throws an arm over her eyes and mumbles something incoherent, the beginnings of dreams beginning to make themselves known upon her soft face. She's never slept quite so intently; she's never slept quite so steadily. But then, she's never had a day quite like the one she had before.

So when the metallic boom of an unseen clock striking one sounds through her room, echoing across the enclosed space and reverberating along the walls, it doesn't even register within her unconscious thoughts. And when it's quickly followed by a gentle rush of wind, ruffling her curtains and rippling through the water in her goldfish bowl, she simply stirs and shifts once more. It's only when the wind grows more intense, causing long tendrils of blonde hair to blow around her face, that she blinks and gradually begins to return to consciousness. And when the moonlight is eclipsed by a bright, almost ethereal glow, flooding into her room and lighting up everything in sight, she quickly reaches under her pillow for her knife and jerks upward into a sitting position.

"Who's there?" she demands, ripping off her face mask. As if on cue, Bryce's words drift back from a few hours earlier. Bryce's warning that three ghosts would be coming to visit her this very night. Unbidden, her fingers tense around her knife and she swallows hard, glancing around her room for the source of the disturbance. "What do you want?"

"That depends," comes a distant, whispery voice, "on you." And right before Sarah's eyes, a being shimmers into existence, the glow of his coffee skin identical to the one lighting up her room.

Instinctively, Sarah hurls her knife toward the figure, the lethal blade heading straight for the man's glowing head. But at the last minute, just before the weapon finds its purchase within his dark skin, the man sidesteps the threat, causing the knife to sail cleanly into the wall behind him with a soft splintering of wood. "Old habits die hard, I see," says Graham, glancing at the weapon before turning back to his protégé. "If you're not careful, Sarah, the CIA is going to have to do some damage control." He glances toward the knife embedded in her door, then turns back to her with quirked brow.

But Sarah's too stunned to notice. Leaning forward on her bed, she gazes at Graham for a long moment, her lips parted and her forehead creased. Finally: "Agent Graham? Is that you?" Even as she says it, she knows how ridiculous the question is, how ludicrous the idea that she could be sitting here, talking to her dead superior. Still, any further words catch in her throat, and she continues to stare at him, waiting for an answer. Waiting to discover that this is some sort of fantasy, some sort of nightmare, some sort of weird, misguided dream.

"Not exactly," the man replies, pulling the knife out of the wall behind him. In the process, his brown robe swishes about his ankles, causing his eerie light to brighten.

"Then who are you?" she asks, cringing as she shields her eyes. "And is there any way you can turn down the light?"

At the request, the man's features twist into a sort of sad grimace, his knife-free hand tightening around what appears to be a pointed cap. "That's part of the reason that I'm here," he says, walking closer to Sarah's bedside. As he advances, Sarah's heart skips a beat and her muscles tense, almost as if she's preparing for the encounter. Almost as if she's preparing herself to fight the strange being lighting up her room. "You spend too much of your life shielding the light, Sarah. You need to learn to walk in the sun's rays."

As she registers the man's words, a chill of longing drifts through Sarah's chest and a shadow of disbelief wafts into her eyes. And even though the words affect her far more than she's willing to admit, and even though a flicker of understanding dawns deep inside, she pushes the sentiment aside and heads into other matters. "You're definitely not Graham," she says, studying him. "So who are you?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," the man intones, stepping to Sarah's bedside and handing her the knife.

Despite herself, she shivers slightly when his chill hand brushes against her fingertips. And in that moment, when goose bumps rise upon her forearms and the touch of his hand is still fresh within her mind, she realizes that this is more real than she's willing to admit. That this man – this _ghost _– is more corporeal than she'd wanted to believe. Tightening her grip around the handle of her blade, she leans forward in a sort of crouch. "Christmas Past?" she repeats guardedly. "Who's past?"

"Your past," the Ghost replies, a beatific smile spreading across his face. "Sent here to show you the error of your ways."

"The error of my ways?" she repeats, her stomach muscles knotting. And suddenly, a familiar face flickers through her mind, a familiar persona with warm brown eyes and curly brown hair and the most innocent grin she's ever known. The image is so vivid, so _real_, that her heart twists, and it takes her a moment to continue her questioning. It takes her a moment to forget everything that came before, everything that's been happening over the past few months, everything that she wishes had never occurred.

_But this is the way it has to be,_ she reminds herself, even though that line of logic has suddenly stopped making so much sense. And while she doesn't quite understand why, and even though she wishes she had more time to reflect on the situation, the fact is that she's got a strange, glowing man proclaiming to be a ghost standing by the side of her bed, and she just doesn't have the time to do so right now. Swallowing the lump from her throat, Sarah pushes Chuck's face from her mind, focusing once more on the specter. "What do you mean?" she demands, a thin, crinkled crease forming between her eyes.

"That, Sarah," the Ghost replies, reaching for her free hand, "Is for you to find out."

"Wait," Sarah holds up her hand before he can touch it, the other still clutched around her weapon, "I need more information. I need to know why you're here. I need to know what you want with me."

But even with the illusive threat of her weapon, even with the beseeching fear reflected within Sarah's bright blue eyes, the Ghost simply shakes his head, his rapturous smile still soft against his face. "We have no time for that now," he says, clasping his cold fingers around her soft hand. "You have much to see. Much to understand."

"But I don't understand," Sarah returns, even as the Ghost pulls her swiftly to her feet, her eyes widening at the strength of his actions. In the process, the knife finally drops from her grasp, bouncing onto the bed with a soft _thump_.

"You will," the Ghost promises, and he begins to pull her toward the window.

Staggering after him, her long, lean legs pale against the moonlight, her black t-shirt rumpled from deep sleep, Sarah's eyes narrow as a wealth of emotions pool within their depths. Bewilderment. Astonishment. Fear. She's never been so helpless, she's never been so out of control. She's never been in a position where she couldn't fight back. And even though the spirit hasn't shown any sign of malevolence, and even though she's still not convinced this isn't some weird dream, some crazy bout of indigestion, she still has to suppress a shudder as she's dragged closer and closer to the window pane. "Wait," she says again, digging in her heels. "I can't go through that! I'll fall to my death."

But the Ghost only gives a gentle laugh and glances at her with the same pleasant look upon his face. "Look inside your heart," he says, his gaze tender and kind. "All the answers you need are right there."

Even as he says it, even as he continues to pull her toward the window, Sarah feels an odd tingling spread from the center of her chest, warm and weird and _wonderful. _And before she can say another word, before she even realizes what's happening, they're floating through the thick glass and out into the cool, black, starry night. A thrill of delight courses down Sarah's spine, an awed laugh bubbles from her throat, and she finds herself floating, floating, floating through the night and beyond, into a world she never imagined existed. Stars rush past her very eyes, the moon gleams brightly up ahead, and trees and buildings and homes become smaller and smaller as the world passes them by. _Chuck would love this,_ comes the unexpected thought, and a flare of yearning echoes through her slender frame. _If only . . . _But then she pushes that painful thought aside, once more focusing on the Ghost.

"Where are we going?" she shouts to the specter, who's still holding tightly to her hand.

But Graham's shadow says nothing in response, his luminous grin cutting through the starry night, his brown robe billowing around his feet, his ethereal glow lighting up the scene around him. And even though it feels like they're never going to land, and despite the fact that she's lost all concept of time, she still blinks in surprise when they slowly start to descend upon the world below them. And when her feet finally touch smooth concrete, and her long blonde hair stops fluttering around her shoulders and her gaze rakes the land around them, she realizes with a start that she knows exactly where they are.

"I know this place," she says softly, placing her hand onto a familiar tree. "I know where we are."

"Do you?" the Ghost prods, a knowing glint within his dark brown eyes.

"Yes," Sarah nods thoughtfully, glancing up and down the tree-lined street. "This was my childhood home. I remember it like I lived here yesterday."

"Hmm," the Ghost intones. "Strange to have forgotten it after all of these years."

But Sarah pays him no notice, his words becoming lost in the familiar air between them. Instead, she turns her gaze to a single story blue home, with tufts of dark green grass and large glass windows and a white picket gate swinging lazily in the wind. "And that," she continues quietly, a small lump rising into her throat, "is where I grew up." She stares at the home for several seconds, countless emotions flitting across her face. Countless memories vying for dominance within her mind. Christmas mornings spent unwrapping gifts and drinking hot chocolate. Lazy days full of laughter and smiles and fun. And a home, a family, a mother and a father and a little girl who had loved each other very much. _Until everything changed._

Folding her lips, Sarah tries to block the thoughts, to block the emotions, to block the feelings coursing through her chest as she stares at a home for which she's longed for the past twenty years of her life. Unfortunately, it's proves to be more difficult than she'd like. And as she steps closer to the house, her features take on a far off quality and she gazes wistfully at the blue abode. "This is where I lived until I was eight years old," she murmurs, her bare knees pressing against the white fence. "It's where I spent my childhood."

His eerie glow lending a strange light to the scene, the Ghost steps to Sarah's side. "Would you like to go inside?" he asks gently, staring at the home.

Swiveling toward the Ghost, Sarah's breath hitches in her throat. "Can I?" she queries, her lips parting.

"Follow me," the Ghost smiles, then takes her hand and pulls her through the fence and into the house.

They enter through a sunny kitchen, where a chaotic mess immediately greets their eyes. Flour pools across the smooth white counter, sugar specks the blue tiled floor and droplets of milk drip from the soiled table in the center of the room. And amidst it all, her face powdered white with flour, her hands sticky from the ingredients littering the room, is a small blonde child standing with her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she cracks an egg into a gooey bowl and a gray kitten frolics around her feet.

Sarah inhales sharply at the sight, her blue eyes going wide. "That's me," she exclaims, moving toward the youngster. "That's me when I was seven-years old. I'm making Christmas cookies."

"As it appears," the Ghost replies, smirking slightly, "You're making a mess."

Shooting him a look, Sarah almost doesn't notice the man standing at the entrance to the room, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watches his daughter with a broad grin. "Try not to get any eggshells into the mixture," he advises, choking back a laugh when the yolk of the egg misses the bowl completely, sliding onto the counter. _("Dad!" cries Sarah, striding across the room to his side. He doesn't appear to notice her.)_

"Oops," little Andrea Carter moans, clapping a sticky hand to her forehead. In the process, sugar, vanilla and traces of egg join the flour decorating her face. The child doesn't seem to care. In fact, so busy is she grabbing another egg from the carton beside the bowl that she doesn't register the sound of the door opening or the soft _bang_ when it closes a second later. So busy is she cracking the egg upon the bowl's rim that she doesn't notice her father's eyes light up, his grin turning radiant as he turns toward the sound. And so busy is she dropping yet another assortment of yolk onto the floor that she doesn't notice him quickly leave the kitchen, a bounce in his step.

No, the only person who notices, the only person whose heart skips a beat when she sees that long lost expression upon her father's face is Sarah herself, who quickly follows in his path. Heading into the living room, her pulse accelerating with hopes of what she might find, she doesn't pay much attention to the decorations brightening the room. She doesn't really notice the assortment of ornaments carefully arranged on the thick Christmas tree, the majority of which appear to have been lovingly crafted by childish hands. She doesn't really observe the garland positioned haphazardly upon the dark green pine needles, dazzling against the pile of presents lying randomly underneath the fir tree. And she doesn't really see the paper star resting atop the tree's highest branch, its many vivid colors scribbled in with bright crayon and marker.

The only thing she notices, the only thing that really permeates her haze, is the woman who stands in the doorway, her Riverside, California police uniform wrinkled from a long day's work, her handcuffs hanging jauntily from her belt, her blonde hair pulled back into a long, straight pony tail and her blue eyes glittering when she gazes lovingly at the man who has just entered the room.

"Mom," Sarah whispers, moving toward the woman as if in a trance. "Mom?" Moving ever closer to the other blonde, a strange gleam enters the spy's eyes and she bites her lower lip, pushing back the wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "It's been so long," she says, reaching a trembling hand up to touch her mother's face.

"Your mother can't hear you," the Ghost confides. "She is but a shadow of things that came before."

Sarah's teeth push further into her lip, causing the skin to turn white as she blinks the prickling from her eyes. _A shadow. Of course. After all these years, after all this time of missing her, of wondering what it would have been like if . . . My mother's only a shadow. A specter. A memory, a recollection, a _flashback_, painful and wonderful and all too real._

"Then why are we here?" Sarah asks, her eyes bright as she turns away from the woman. "Why did you bring me here if I can't even talk to her?"

"Because," the Ghost says, "There are things you must learn. Things you must remember. And in order to do so properly, we must start from the beginning."

The spy stares hard at the specter, weighing his words within her mind. But before she can say anything else, before she can demand to return home once more, her father's voice interrupts her thoughts and she finds herself turning toward the scene.

"Hi, baby," John Carter drawls, wrapping his wife within his muscular arms. "What took you so long?"

"Funny thing," Angela Carter returns coyly, "Criminals don't stop committing crimes, even when you're off the clock."

"We'll have to put a stop to that," John replies, breathing in her scent as he dips his head toward her shoulder. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," she murmurs, smiling softly as she revels in his touch.

Blushing, Sarah averts her gaze even as a wistful smile spreads across her face. Her parents had always been so happy. They had always been so _in love_. Even when they'd had their spats, even when her father's temper would flare or her mother's stubbornness would reign, they had always been the picture of a happy family. Until the day that her mother had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. Until the day she had let down her defenses, let down her guard. Until the day she had been ripped from Sarah's life forever.

But no. She pushes that thought aside, instead focusing on the scene before her. It's been so long, she's missed them so much. And even though she won't admit it, and despite the fact that she's unsure how to deal with the rush of memories racing through her mind, a tiny, forsaken piece of her flickers to life as she watches her parents interact with the love she's almost forgotten they shared. The simple, genuine kind of love she's almost forgotten can exist. The love that she's almost forgotten she longs for in her own life. Unbidden, she flashes once more upon a familiar pair of brown eyes, a gentle, innocent, face that sends a wistful pang reverberating through her chest and a yearning ache piercing through her core. But before she can really reflect on the image, before she can get too caught up in her thoughts, her mother's voice breaks through the fog.

"Where's Andi?" Angela asks, craning her neck to look for her small daughter.

"Kitchen," John replies, tracing his wife's graceful neck with his lips. Brushing aside a lock of long blonde hair, he places a kiss on the crevice between her neck and chin. "She decided to make Christmas cookies."

"And you let her?!" she cries, spinning in her husband's arms to give him an accusatory glare. Behind her, Sarah smirks, remembering the messy scene awaiting the young cop.

"What can I say?" her father replies, shrugging sheepishly. "She's an adorable cook. Besides, I made sure to lock the stove."

"Well, so long as you locked the stove," Angela elbows him, an impish glint within her eyes. "What's a messy kitchen compared to –" But any further words get lost upon her lips when a high pitched cry emanates from the entrance to the room, a blur of flour, icing and long blonde hair throwing herself into Angela's arms as her furry kitten scampers after her.

"Mommymommymommymommymommy," the little girl bounces excitedly, the assorted ingredients decorating her small body rubbing off onto Angela's police uniform.

"Andi Andi Andi Andi," Angela replies, grinning as she moistens her finger and starts to clean her daughter's face. "What on earth have you gotten into?"

"I'm baking Christmas cookies, Mommy," the child exclaims, squirming away from her mother's cleansing touch. "They're gonna be yummy."

"I'll just bet," the woman replies, giving her head a rueful shake. "Probably about as 'yummy' as your face."

Andi's blonde waves spill around her shoulders as she tips her head back in hysterical laughter. "Silly Mommy," she cries, her arms still wrapped around her mother's slender frame. "You can't eat my face."

"Oh, I don't know," Angela replies with a sly grin, leaning down so that her face is level with her daughter's. "I think I just might." And with that, she begins peppering the girl with kisses, causing Andi's laughter to bubble mirthlessly.

Watching the scene, Sarah's heart twists covetously. "She was my best friend," she murmurs, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I'd forgotten how much I missed her." _I'd forgotten how much I'd missed having a family._

As if on cue, her father's voice cuts through her thoughts, jarring her back to the present couched within the past. "Okay, you two," he says, crossing his arms over his chest with an indulgent grin. "If you're not careful, we're gonna have to buy a new living room."

"What's wrong, John?" Angela returns, quirking a brow as she breaks away from her daughter. "I thought you weren't afraid of a little mess?"

A knowing twinkle within his eyes, John simply shrugs. "Oh, I'm not," he says innocently. "I just happen to like the color of our carpet. I'm not quite sure that flour would agree with the shaggy brown."

"Uh-huh," Angela retorts, then glances back at her daughter. "Let's get him," she mouths, causing Andi's face to split into a wide grin. Lightning quick, the pair break apart and dash across the room, pouncing onto a wide-eyed John with vigor and gusto.

"Wait, wait," he cries, holding up his hands as his girls grab him around the waist and sprinkle kisses on his face and arms. "Uncle, I call uncle. How is this fair?"

Pulling back from her husband's muscular arms, Angela shoots him a coy wink. "Payback's a dirty thing, John," she says mischievously. And then she swipes her finger across his nose, leaving a trail of flour in her wake. Nearby, Sarah can't help but laugh as she watches their antics.

"You were a happy family once," the Ghost says, stepping up her Sarah's side with a contemplative look upon his face.

"We were," Sarah nods, the same wistful tone present within her voice. "Before . . ." _Before what? Before they destroyed my mother's life? Before my father became a con man? Before everything changed?_ Crossing her arms tightly over her chest, she forces the thoughts from her head, forces the memories from her mind, forces her blank mask firmly back into place. She can't do this. She can't remember this. It's gone now, finished. Dead. There is no going back.

"Before that all changed," the Ghost finishes for her. Pursing her lips, Sarah tries hard not to acknowledge the statement, tries hard to pretend as though she didn't even hear the words. They're too final, they're too concrete. They're too similar to her own thoughts. "Come, Sarah," Graham's shadow reaches toward her. "There's more for you to see."

"What if I don't want to see it?" Sarah mutters, instinctively twisting away.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice." And with that, the Ghost grabs Sarah's hand, causing the spy to grit her teeth even as the wonderful feeling of warmth tingles through her chest anew.

Once again, trees and houses and buildings grow steadily smaller, stars whizz by her head, and the moon greets them from up ahead. But this time, Sarah barely notices. This time, Sarah barely cares. She's too wrapped up in the scene she's just witnessed; she's too wrapped up in the woman she's just left behind. And when she feels herself falling gently through the sky, when she feels her bare feet hit smooth white linoleum, when she smells the sterile odor permeating the air, it takes her a moment to even register her surroundings. But when she does so, when her eyes rake the bunches of holly along the white washed walls, and the strands of garland decorating the nurse's station, and the flurry of hospital professionals passing quickly by a thick, heavily decorated Christmas tree, her shoulders tense as long suppressed memories begin to emerge. And when she realizes where she's standing, when she looks in through the plate glass window and she sees the trio inside the sterilized room, her heart drops quickly within her chest.

"No," she says, shaking her head almost forcefully and averting her gaze. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to see this. Not again."

"There are many things we do not wish to do," the Ghost concedes gently, his hand still clasped firmly around her own. "But it's those very things that we must accomplish." And with that, he pulls her through the wall and straight into the room. And even though she instinctively digs in her heels, and despite the fact that she wants nothing more than to get back home, get back to bed, to forget that this entire night even happened, she's beginning to realize that it isn't going to be that simple. That she won't be able to pretend away the shadows he's showing her now. And so she purses her lips, and she crosses her arms, and she stares solemnly at the difficult memory before her.

A younger Jack Burton sits on one side of a long hospital bed, his hair falling into his face as his head droops forward on his shoulders, his fingers threaded through his wife's pale, slender hand. On the other side of the bed is eight-year old Sarah – Andi – her face tear streaked, her blonde hair disheveled, her eyes red and raw. And in the center of the room, in the center of the scene, is her mother, her own face pale and wan, her own blonde hair disheveled, her own eyes distant and morose. She lays weakly in the hospital bed, thin brown blankets pulled up to her waist, countless tubes and bags attached to her frail frame, a clamp around her finger, leading to a machine beeping in the corner. Around her torso is a thick bandage, skillfully wrapped to cover the gunshot wound in her chest. The gunshot wound that resides in a place nearly identical to the one Bryce received just before he died. The gunshot wound she received when she was sent into the wrong fight at the wrong time, because she never should have been called in at the last minute to work on Christmas. Not when she had a family waiting for her at home.

Staring at the machine in the corner, Sarah notices with a painful start that the beeps depicting her mother's heart rate are gradually becoming slower, the thin, wavy line measuring her mom's pulse increasingly flattening out. "I don't want to see this," she murmurs, even though she knows that it is futile. Even though she understands that she will be shown many things tonight, and most of them she will not want to see. Even though maybe she wants this, maybe she needs this, maybe she knows that she needs to remember. So when her mother speaks up from her hospital bed, she takes a deep breath, straightening her shoulders in abject resolve, and forces herself to look at the trio before her.

"John," Angela whispers, giving her husband's fingers a frail squeeze. When he looks up at her with watery eyes, her face twists and she slowly raises his hand to her mouth, causing his tears to become all the more apparent. "Could you leave me alone with Andi for a moment? I want to speak with our daughter."

Folding his lips, he stares at his wife for a long moment, the struggle clear behind his eyes. But when his wife continues to look at him deploringly, he nods his head and kisses her hand in turn, before releasing her from his grasp and pushing himself into a standing position. "I'll be right outside," he replies, giving Sarah's younger version a shaky smile.

"No," the adult Sarah shakes her head. "No, he can't leave. This is where it all went wrong." She spins around to fix frantic eyes upon the Ghost. "We have to get him back in here," she says adamantly, placing her hand onto a nearby table for support.

"I'm sorry," the Ghost replies, shrugging. "We can't. This is but a shadow of what came before."

Sarah grits her teeth, narrows her eyes. Disengages her hand and takes a step closer to the Ghost. "But he wasn't there," she cries, gesturing toward the spot where her father had just vacated. "He wasn't there to say goodbye. If he had been there, if he had been able to see her one last time –" _Then what? Then he never would have flaunted the law? Then he never would have tried to get back at the people who placed her mother out into a dangerous, futile fight? Then he never would have ruined my life by becoming a con artist? By forgetting about everything that we'd ever cared for, everything that we'd ever worked for, everything that we'd ever _wanted_, and getting himself thrown into jail over and over again?_

But before she can ask any of the questions, before she can make another appeal to the Ghost, Graham's shadow raises a bright, compelling finger, pointing to the scene by the bed. And somehow, Sarah feels herself turning back around, the questions burning within her head slowly fading as she watches her mother talk to her younger self. To the little girl she left behind.

"Did the bad guys get you, Mommy?" the child asks, her voice wobbling as a layer of tears fill her eyes. "Did they do this to you?"

The woman in the bed fixes the most tender, the most caring pair of blue eyes upon her daughter, her fingers slowly inching across the bedspread until they can curl around the child's tiny hand. "Let's not talk about that, Andi," she says gently, a loving smile spreading across her pale face even as she grimaces from the effort it's now taking to move.

"Okay," Andi replies quietly, lifting her mother's hand so that she can rub it against her soft cheek. Beside her, Sarah bites her lower lip, her own eyes prickling with unshed tears. Her own hands trembling slightly as she watches the scene unfold before her. But even so, and even though she's forcefully keeping herself from fleeing the room, she continues to watch. She continues to listen. And she continues to remember.

"What do you want to talk about?" the child prods, leaning into her mother's touch.

"Do you know how much I love you, sweetheart?" Angela asks, brushing her fingertips against her daughter's face.

"This much?" little Sarah asks with a watery smile, spreading her arms wide and taking her mother's hand with her.

"That's right," Angela gives a soft laugh, cringing from the movement. "That much." She pauses for a moment, studying her child intently, a shadow of deep sorrow wafting across her face. And as she does so, as she continues to revel in this moment with her daughter, the beeping from her vital check machine begins to slow and the line depicting her vital signs gradually flattens. "So . . . I need you . . . to do me a favor," she continues, her words emerging between shallow breaths.

"Of course, Mommy," Andi replies, nodding her small blonde head. "What do you want me to do?"

"Be happy, Andi," Angela whispers, her fingers still playing weakly along her daughter's face. And then: "Live life . . . to the fullest." And finally, after one last shaky breath: "Find love . . . and embrace it."

They're instructions that cause the child's forehead to crinkle, advice that's lost upon her young ears. But standing by the bedside, regretful tears stinging her reddened eyes, they're directions that resonate all too well within Sarah's mind. "Oh, Mom," she murmurs, fighting back the lump threatening to rise within her throat. _If only it was that simple_. Unbidden, Chuck's face infiltrates her thoughts once more, causing her breath to catch and her heart to skip.

"And, Andi," Angela continues, leaning back against her pillow in exhaustion. "Take care . . . of your father. He's . . . going to need you."

"But won't he have you?" Andi questions, gazing anxiously at her mother. "Can't we take care of him together?"

Biting her lower lip, Angela stares at her little girl, the struggle now clear upon _her_ face. "I will always . . . be there, sweetie," she finally whispers. "I promise." And then she gives her daughter one last smile, one last expression full of compassion and love and deep, heart wrenching regret, before drawing a shaky gasp of breath and closing her eyes, her vital signs flattening out and a long, loud, high pitched _BEEP_ sounding from the corner machine.

"Mommy!" Andi yelps, throwing herself over her mother's still form and burying her head in her chest, just as Sarah rushes forward and cries "Mom!", the tears finally forming fully within her glistening blue eyes, just as the door flies open, heavy, urgent footsteps rushing into the room, and the terrified, grief stricken persona of Jack Burton appears. "Angela!" he screams, racing to the other side of the bed. "No! No," he repeats, dropping onto the bed and placing a trembling hand upon his wife's face. "Angie, please. You can't do this. You can't leave me. Please, baby," he moans, his fingers splayed desperately across her cheek. "Please, come back to me, baby."

Biting back a sob, Sarah whirls again to face the Ghost, her shoulders shaking from suppressed emotion. "I don't want to see this anymore," she states, her voice cracking. "I want to go home. I want to go home _right now_."

"I'm sorry, Sarah," the Ghost states sadly, shaking his head. "There's more you must see."

"Don't you get it?" Sarah demands, striding across the room to face off against Graham's shadow. "I don't want to see anymore. I don't want to relive anymore memories. I've had enough."

"No," the specter says. "I don't think you have." And before Sarah can say another word, before she can even dodge his touch, he reaches out and grabs her hand. And suddenly, the mourning family dissolves, the hospital dissolves, the entire city of Riverside, California dissolves. And the next thing Sarah knows, she's standing inside a split level home, droplets of rain falling outside the window, a roaring fire flickering in a corner fireplace, and a young girl sitting in a straight-backed chair, staring outside the nearest window with an aging gray tabby cat curled up in her arms.

Again, the memories rush back on Sarah, more poignant and more painful with each passing second. And when the door swings open with a clatter, and a man stomps into the room, a triumphant light reflected within his navy eyes, her shoulders slump as she remembers the Christmas they're visiting now.

"Hey, honey," Jack Burton greets his daughter, slamming the door behind him. "Are you ready for our newest con job?"

Her face falling, fifteen-year old Jennifer Burton turns toward the sound of her father's voice. "Con job?" she mumbles.

"Of course," Jack replies, grinning broadly as he tosses his keys onto a nearby table. "It's a sure bet this year. I've figured out a way to bypass the Salvation Army's toys and take all that money they've been so busy collecting in those red tin pots."

Unnoticed by her father, the teenager grimaces, instinctively tightening her arms around her mewling feline. "Can't we just celebrate Christmas this year, Dad? You know, with presents and Christmas trees and eggnog like everyone else?"

If she had been paying closer attention to her father's features, Jenny might have noticed the slight downward curve of his lips, or the shadow of inward rebuke which passes through his eyes. As it is, she's too busy staring at a spot behind him, attempting to fix a careful mask upon her features even as her own mouth flits downward into a frown. And when she finally glances back at her father, when her blue gaze finally connects with his own navy, his flicker of self-reproach has vanished to be replaced with a winsome grin. "But we aren't like everyone else, Angel," Jack wheedles, stepping toward his daughter. "We have better things to do than celebrate a holiday full of commercialism. We have some money to earn."

"But that's just it!" Jenny exclaims forcefully, causing her cat to give one last disgusted _MROW_ before jumping from his mistress's arms and padding into another room. "We aren't _earning_ it, Daddy," she says, gesturing desperately with her empty arms. "We're _stealing_ it. And we're taking it from people who need it more than we do."

"Damn it, Dad," Sarah mutters from the darkened corner, "Why didn't you ever listen to me?"

"Your father was quite the con man," the Ghost concedes, causing Sarah to blink when she remembers his luminous presence. "But he wasn't always that way."

"No," Sarah replies, shaking her head as she watches her father deliver some slick excuse. "He only turned to con work after my mom . . . when he decided that we needed to find another way to earn a living." _When he decided to forsake the law, to forsake the world, to forsake his life. To get back at the people who ripped my mother from our lives, shattering our home and turning our world upside down. He didn't understand that it wasn't their fault. He didn't understand that it was the criminals who killed her. He didn't understand that the only way to make up for Mom's death was by fighting the people who shot her in the first place._

"It seems to me," the Ghost continues, even as Sarah's chest clenches from suppressed pain, "that you didn't always dislike this kind of work."

Sarah opens her mouth to deny him, to tell him that he's wrong. That she always disliked this work. That she never got over the fact that her father turned their happy existence into a life of running and crime. But then she remembers her first con, and she thinks back to the exhilaration she felt when her father told her she'd done a good job. And she reflects on the fact that it had been an escape, an outlet, a way to bury the pain and connect with her father, she and Jack against the world. And she realizes that maybe the Ghost is right. "I didn't mind it at first," she admits quietly, carefully. "It was only later that I realized my mistake." _It was only later that I realized how much of my mom I had lost._ Steeling herself, she turns her attention back to the scene before her.

"Do you really think," Jenny demands, "That Mom would want us to live this way? That she would want us to steal from the same people she tried to protect?"

At her words, her father's eyes narrow and his face pales. "Don't talk about your mother, Angel," he commands, swallowing hard.

"I miss her, too, Daddy," Jenny replies, her voice cracking as she reaches out to touch her father's arm. "I miss her all the time. But do you really think she'd want us to forget Christmas just so we can steal from the same people she spent her life trying to protect?"

The man studies his daughter for a long moment, and Sarah can see the warring emotions within his eyes. Agony. Longing. Regret. And a deep-seated affection, barely visible and buried down so deep that Sarah almost misses it. But when he raises his hand to cup his daughter's cheek, when he speaks and his own voice shakes, she knows that it's present. And for some reason, it causes a dull ache to reverberate through her chest. "I'll tell you what," he says, then closes his eyes in an apparent attempt to compose himself. When he opens them again, some of the emotion has been replaced by a thin layer of calm, a careful shield used to hide the pain he's still feeling deep inside. "We'll make a deal," he continues jovially, removing his hand from his daughter's face and dropping it back to his side. "You play your part on Christmas Eve and help me with this new, improved Salvation Army con, and we'll have a real Christmas celebration the very next day."

The girl weighs the options, clearly less pleased with one than she is with the other. But when her father continues to look at her with an imploring grin upon his face, when he continues to show no sign of backing down, she finally sighs and shrugs. "Promise?" she prods, forcing her lips into a tentative smile.

"Of course, sweetheart," the man nods, giving his daughter a winsome wink. "When have I ever let you down before?"

In response, Jenny just stares at him, countless memories clear within her eyes.

"He forgot," Sarah whispers, watching her younger self with sympathetic regret. "We didn't celebrate Christmas that year."

"Your father was always very good at masking his emotions," the Ghost states, glancing at the blonde spy. "He was always skilled at pretending one thing when he was really thinking another."

"Yeah," Sarah nods, her throat tightening even as she turns from the memory. Even as she walks toward a window and gazes at the falling rain, trying to push the ache from her chest. "He was."

"How interesting that it's become a family trait," the Ghost murmurs, arching a brow. The self-same shield guarding her features, Sarah ignores him, instead gazing in faux calmness at the rainy world outside. "Come, Sarah," the Ghost finally says, joining her at the window. "We have more to see." And with that, he grasps her hand and pulls her through the wall and up into the watery night, the San Diego home slipping away behind them.

The moment their feet touch ground, Sarah's senses are assaulted by dim, smoky air and the rhythmic beat of pulsing music. Caught off guard by the complete shift in scenery, it takes her a moment to realize that she's standing in a night club. Gazing at her surroundings, her eyes skim a sleek black bar adorned with silvery strands of garland, an elevated stage complete with a rock band sporting Santa hats, and a plethora of dancers, each cheerful, many tipsy, and several bedecked in Christmas attire. Something about the place, about the atmosphere is familiar, yet Sarah can't quite place her finger on it. Raising her brows, she turns to the Ghost.

"Not all of your Christmases were quite so tragic," he explains, pointing toward the open doorway. A drift of snow billows in from the outside world, accompanied by a trio of well-dressed twenty-somethings.

"Bryce," Sarah exclaims, stepping toward the sight until her knee comes into contact with a displaced barstool. "And Carina and me. This was the Christmas just before . . ." _Just before Bryce died. Just before everything changed. Just before I was reminded once again that anyone can be taken from my life at any time._ Pursing her lips, Sarah forces the thought from her mind, her gaze turning blank and distant in the process. Even so, and despite the painful jolt that pierces her chest, she continues to look steadily at the scene before her.

Bryce is dressed in tight black jeans and a leather jacket, each of his arms linked through the corresponding arm of a gorgeous girl. Standing on his left is Sarah, bedecked in a short red dress, her blonde hair falling in wavy wisps around her face, a black jacket secured tightly around her slender frame. And on his right is Carina, wrapped in a slinky black dress, her russet locks piled atop her head, a brown leather jacket keeping her warm. The moment the three are inside the night club, Carina disentangles her arm from Bryce's grasp and begins scouting potential prey. And when her eyes alight on four eligible bachelors, her lips curl into a sly smile.

"Well, I've had about enough of the married life," she cries above the music, glancing at her two friends. "I'm gonna go find some fun." With that, she bumps hips with Bryce and saunters over to the gawking men, her dress swishing sexily around her legs as she pulls off her jacket and drapes it over her arm. And when she begins her coy interactions, matching expressions of amused astonishment form upon Bryce and Sarah's faces.

Smiling seductively, she sashays up to one man, running her finger slowly up his exposed chest. "Eenie," she says, gazing into his eyes before wrinkling her nose and shaking her head. Moving quickly onto the next man, she leans in slowly and whispers into his ear: "Meenie." But when she pulls back, her nose wrinkles again and she moves rapidly to another hopeful suitor. "Minie," she purrs, drifting gradually toward his lips. But just before she makes contact, her nose wrinkles for a third time and she leaves the man panting behind her. Moving onto her next mark, she looks deeply into his eyes and breathes, "Moe." And then her smile brightens and she clasps the front of his black silk shirt. "Yeah," she says, pulling him onto the dance floor, "You'll do."

"Wow," Bryce intones, watching Carina begin an entirely too sexy dance with her chosen prey, "Never let it be said that Carina doesn't have an interesting selection method."

"She always has been unique," Past Sarah agrees, choking back a laugh just as Current Sarah snorts into the palm of her hand.

"Of course," Bryce continues, his words strangely magnified above the loud music, "She doesn't hold a candle to you."

"Oh, really?" Past Sarah prods, leaning against her boyfriend's shoulder.

"Well," Bryce clarifies, slipping his arm around her waist, "You do look hot tonight. And you know what the best part is?"

"What's that?" Sarah breathes, a twinkle in her bright blue eyes.

"By being with you," Bryce says, kneading the joint between her slender waist and her curvy hip, "I'm making every guy in this place green with envy." He gives her a playful wink, and Past Sarah's laughter joins in with the cadence of the throbbing music just as Present Sarah rolls her eyes. Bryce always had been more concerned with his appearance than anything else. But then she remembers where exactly Bryce is now, and how exactly he got there, and the painful jolt ricochets through her slender frame once more. Pushing the thought from her mind, she continues to watch her past self interact with her now ex-boyfriend.

Leading Past Sarah into a dim corner, a charismatic grin stretches across Bryce's rugged face. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Anderson," he intones, reaching into his pocket to extract a thin golden bracelet.

"Wow, Bryce," Past Sarah murmurs, fingering the golden chain. When he slips the ringlet around her wrist, his fingers brushing against her soft skin, she flushes guiltily. "But I didn't get anything for you."

"Of course you did," Bryce replies, his dark blue eyes darting mischievously to a spot just above him.

Following his gaze, Past Sarah's lips twist into a coy smile when she notices the mistletoe hanging from the rafters. "Why, Mr. Anderson," she falls into the familiar nickname, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you dragged me over here on purpose."

"Now why would I have done that?" Bryce returns, then reaches out to thread his fingers through Past Sarah's golden locks. As he pulls her to him for a heated kiss, Current Sarah finds herself blushing and averting her gaze.

"That bracelet broke the next day," she admits, smirking slightly. "He told me that he'd gotten it out of a vending machine."

Laughing softly, the Ghost's light flickers across the room. "As I recall, it was a very interesting relationship. And if I'm not mistaken, your first real relationship."

_My first real relationship. My first real crush._ Her chest constricts as she remembers the situation, as she thinks back to her time with Bryce. As she realizes that whatever she and Bryce had, whatever crazy thing had ever existed between them, it was over now. Finished. And even though she learned long ago that she had never loved him, and despite the fact that there's another man who has stolen her heart, she can't help the ache of regret that echoes through her veins when she thinks about Bryce Larkin. When she remembers how he was taken. How he was killed. When she realizes that he was ripped from her existence in much the same way that her mother was ripped from her world. When she thinks about the fact that it proves the one thing she's spent her life trying to deny: Anyone can leave at anytime, without so much as a goodbye.

"I believe that he filled a sort of hole in your life," the Ghost continues thoughtfully. "He helped you forget, just for a minute, how much you missed."

Her brow furrowing, Sarah studies a speck on a nearby table as she purposely avoids the Ghost's penetrating gaze. "It was a fling," she says softly. "A way to blow off some steam." _A way to forget about everything else._

"It's funny," the Ghost replies, stroking his chin and interrupting her thoughts, "How we attempt to mask our pain with one thing when it's really another that we crave." When Sarah turns to him with arched brow, he clarifies. "As I recall, another man gave you a bracelet."

"Yes," she nods, her eyes clouding with barely concealed emotion as she thinks of the moment to which the Ghost refers. As she remembers the look on Chuck's face when he gave her the precious piece of jewelry. As she thinks of Chuck himself.

Smiling softly, the Ghost holds out his hand once more. "Come, Sarah," he speaks the by now familiar words, "We have another Christmas to explore." And when she places a hesitant hand within his grasp, he sends them soaring anew, the night club falling away beneath their feet.

They land in the Bartowski living room, Sarah's bare calves brushing against the plush tan couch as her black t-shirt rides up slightly on her slender frame. Beside her, the Ghost continues to emit his unearthly glow, lighting up their nearby surroundings and amplifying the glow of the multi-colored lights bedecking the nearby Christmas tree. Immediately, Sarah's gaze falls on the man sitting on the couch, his shoulders slightly hunched over his long legs, his hands clasped nervously in his lap. Sarah's heart skips a beat and her lips curve slowly upward as she takes in his thick brown hair, a few curls hanging before his soft brown eyes, and the faint flush which colors his angular cheeks.

"Chuck," she murmurs, the tension dissipating from her neck. Finally, a memory that isn't quite so painful. Perching upon the arm of the couch, she gazes at the computer nerd, a feeling of warmth chasing away the darkness which has built within her chest for the better part of the night. So caught up is she in the sight that she barely notices the Ghost shift beside her, a thoughtful hue brightening his features.

"Love has always been forbidden in the world of espionage," he intones, stroking his illuminated chin with thumb and forefinger. "But sometimes, that which is forbidden is also that which is most needed."

Twisting to stare at the Ghost, the warmth surging through Sarah's chest slowly dissipates as she considers his words. "I'm not sure what you mean," she says, a guarded layer entering her eyes.

"Aren't you?" the Ghost replies, a strange, knowing smile forming upon his lips.

Sarah has to suppress a shiver at the sight, at the way the Ghost's statement weighs upon her thoughts far more than she'd like. Opening her mouth to reply, she finds herself at a loss for words, her throat constricting. And when Ellie enters the living room, she finds that she still hasn't formed a response.

"Sorry," the brunette smiles at her little brother, taking a seat by his side. "Hospital emergency."

"It's okay," Chuck replies, his voice slightly high pitched. Rubbing his palms together, he clears his throat and sits forward on the couch.

"So what did you want to talk about?" Ellie prompts, her brow furrowing as she studies her little brother. "Is everything okay? Sarah's all right, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes," he says, nodding quickly. "I mean, Sarah's fine. She's great. Awesome," he continues, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Listen, Ellie . . . You know that bracelet that Dad gave you for safekeeping?"

Ellie's eyes go wide at the query. "You mean the bracelet that he gave to Mom?" she prods.

"Exactly," Chuck nods, his curls bouncing in time with his movements. He pauses for a moment, the glimmering lights of the Christmas tree brightening his anxious gaze. But when Ellie continues to wait with a wide, hopeful smile, when she continues to watch him with apparent anticipation, he swallows hard and continues. "I was wondering if I could have it?" he asks, gazing at the wall behind his sister. "I sort of wanted to give it to Sarah for Christmas."

Ellie's sharp inhalation of breath is so loud, so audible that it causes Sarah to start, her gaze fluttering from Chuck's pale features to the brunette's jubilant face. "But Dad told you to save that for the girl you wanted to spend your life with," she says, her voice crackling with barely concealed excitement.

"I know," Chuck confesses, his lips curling into the selfsame innocent, charming grin that causes Sarah's heart to melt even as her breath hitches in her throat. "I think I've found her."

"Oh, Chuck," Sarah whispers, reaching over to place an affectionate hand upon his arm. When her fingers slip through his visage, and her hand falls back to her side, her features twist in frustration, a shadow of yearning flickering within her eyes. And in that moment, she realizes just how much she wants to touch him, just how deeply she longs to have him here by her side. Not a shadow. Not a memory. But the real person, the guy so different from the one she's just seen, the genuine man who would give her his mother's charm bracelet, who would invite her into his life, into his family, into his _heart,_ even when she had messed up every chance, every opportunity. Even when she had let him down, even when she had crushed his hope, even when she had hurt him every time he had offered her his unconditional love. _I'm so sorry._

"It's interesting," the Ghost murmurs, causing the spy to blink in surprise as she swivels to face him.

"What's interesting?" she queries, arching a brow.

"I've seen that look before," the Ghost replies, giving Sarah the distinct feeling that she's being bated. "Tonight, as a matter of fact."

Her forehead creasing, Sarah follows the Ghost's line of sight to Chuck's anxious, radiant features. Studying him, it takes her a moment to realize. It takes her a moment to see. It takes her a moment to understand. But when she does, when the meaning of the Ghost's proclamation finally dawns within her mind, her breath catches in her throat and goose bumps prickle upon her arms. Reflected upon Chuck's face, alight within his velvety eyes, blazing within his broad grin is an expression so familiar, so _welcome_ that it's almost heart wrenching. Present upon his face is an expression she's only seen one other time in her life. An expression she'd thought she'd never see again.

"I believe your father used to look at your mother that way," the Ghost interprets, even as Sarah's chest clenches and a dull ache forms behind her eyes. When she fails to say anything else, the Ghost persists. "The CIA has always forbidden love," he repeats his earlier thought. "But the CIA isn't always right, Sarah."

Tucking her mouth, Sarah wills herself to remain calm. Wills herself to remain collected. Wills herself to keep her careful shield firmly in place. But even so, and even despite the fact that she's unused to the unbridled emotions racing through her veins, she can't stop the shimmery layer from forming within her eyes. "It isn't always that simple," she says. And she knows that she's right. She knows that she has to be right. Because if it was that simple, if she could just let go and let Chuck in, then she would have done so long ago. She would have given up this fight, given up this struggle, and let herself feel.

But: "Sometimes the simplest things are also the most complicated," the Ghost continues his cryptic game, causing Sarah to bristle under the hidden meaning.

"You don't get it," she states, pushing herself off the arm of the couch and crossing her arms as she faces Graham's shadow. "I can't just let Chuck in. It's too risky."

"Risky for whom?" the Ghost challenges, crossing his own arms and staring into her own eyes just as intensely.

"For Chuck!" she cries, her eyes flashing.

"For Chuck," he prods, "Or for you?"

It's a simple question, an easy inquiry. Opening her mouth to respond, Sarah wills the answer to form upon her lips. To sound in the thick, illuminated air, to give her immediate release the way the lifting of a large boulder gives immediate satisfaction as it's carried off the shoulders of someone who's been holding it for days. But just as before, her throat constricts, her mouth dries, and she finds that the words will not come. The Ghost's question echoes through her head, sounding within her mind, sharp and heady and distinct.

And as he continues to stare at her, as he continues to wait for her response, she realizes that maybe there's a reason that she can't speak. Maybe there's a reason that a lump is rising into her throat, that her heart is rocketing in her chest, that she has to reach out to grasp the couch for control. Maybe the Ghost knows more than she wants to give him credit for. Maybe the reason she's pushed Chuck away, the reason she's kept Chuck out is because she's been afraid. Afraid to let go. Afraid to give in. Afraid that if she lets him see her, _really _see her, then she'll lose him just as fast as she's lost everyone else. Because after everything she's done in her life, after all the people she's killed, after all the governments she's infiltrated, how could an innocent man like Chuck Bartowski care for her?

Breathing in deeply, the chaotic struggle still fresh upon her face, Sarah focuses her gaze upon Graham's shadow once more. "It doesn't matter," she says weakly, even though she knows all too well that it does. "The CIA has rules against that sort of thing."

"The CIA has lost many people," the Ghost retorts, a sympathetic light within his eyes. "And most of them have died lonely. Do you really want to follow the same pattern?"

"I –" Sarah begins, then realizes that she doesn't really know what else to say. Luckily, the Ghost chooses that moment to change the subject.

"There's something else you must see, Sarah," he states. And with that, he grabs her hand and pulls her through the sky once more, even as her thoughts remain below on the scene within Chuck's living room. And when they return to the ground, rocky concrete cutting into the soles of Sarah's feet and bristly pine needles brushing against her arms, she's still thinking about Chuck. She's still thinking about that look on his face. She's still thinking about the memory of Chuck and Ellie, the memory of a family, the memory of a home, and how different it is from the memory of herself and Bryce and Carina, three people who simply wanted to shut out the world. So when her eyes land on the computer nerd, when they rake his lanky frame and take in the way his gray Buy More tie accentuates his handsome features, she almost wonders if they've really left his house at all.

But then she hears her own voice.

"Chuck's secret is safe," she says, a gun pointed at a fallen man, the silver bracelet dangling gently from her wrist. "And you're going straight to a CIA detention facility, never to be seen or heard from again.

"You go right ahead, Agent Walker," he says, coming to his feet with a sneer. "Arrest me," he holds out his hands in apparent submission, even while a malevolent spark appears within his dark blue eyes. "But say goodbye to Chuck," he goads. "You see, I'm not like those other Fulcrum agents. They'll do whatever it takes to find me. And when they do, every Fulcrum agent we have is going to know Chuck's the Intersect. It's gonna be the end of his pathetic existence. So take me in, Agent Walker. I'm ready to go."

Nearby, the current Sarah's stomach knots even while her chest twists and her fists clench. "Bastard," she mutters. But before she can get too angry, before she can really allow herself to give into her rage, a loud _BANG_ pierces the still night air, the gun held in past Sarah's hand smoking as the bullet lodges itself forcefully into Mauser's muscular body, while all the while the bracelet swings innocently from the spy's wrist.

And suddenly, current Sarah diverts her gaze. Suddenly, she finds herself looking at Chuck, studying him as he crouches behind a towering pine tree. And suddenly, her heart shatters within her chest, tears forming within her eyes. Because in that moment, when past Sarah is standing over Mauser and phoning Casey for backup, the light goes out of Chuck's face. The familiar expression, the one she's spent her whole life yearning for, flees his eyes. And she's left staring at a man who looks like he's staring at a frightening stranger. And once more, the truth underscoring her life echoes through her mind: she can lose Chuck in the blink of an eye, without even knowing that it's time to say goodbye.

Forcefully biting her lower lip, squeezing her eyes and forcing back the tears, Sarah whirls on the Ghost, the pain still clear upon her face. "Why did you bring me back here?" she demands, advancing on him almost menacingly. "So that I'll remember how much it hurt when my mother died? So that I'll remember how much my father changed after he lost the love of his life? So that I'd see the light leave Chuck's eyes when he looks at me? So that I'll remember that the minute he discovers who I really am, the minute he sees the real me, he'll shrink away and I'll lose him?"

"I don't understand," the Ghost replies, furrowing his dark brow. "Haven't you spent the last few months pushing Chuck Bartowski out of your life?"

"What do you know about it?!" Sarah shoots back.

"I know that he remained," the Ghost says gently. "I know that he forgave you. I know that he never stopped –"

But: "No," she says, shaking her head almost violently. "I don't want to hear it. I've had enough." And in one instinctual, lightning quick movement, she wrests the cap from his hand and jams it onto the top of his head, pushing it forcefully over his face until it shuts out the light emanating from his coffee brown skin. She doesn't stop until the light is extinguished; she doesn't finish until she's standing in utter, absolute darkness. Only then does she realize that she can't see a thing.

But before she can attempt to make her way within the pitch black space, before she can even contemplate what she must do next, she's suddenly falling, falling, falling through the night and landing with a soft _thump_ in her own warm bed. Blinking in surprise, she gazes at her surroundings, runs her fingers over her arms, reaches down to touch the plush mattress and examine the silky sheets, just to make sure that everything is there. Just to make sure that everything is real.

"That was one odd dream," she finally says, her voice cracking slightly. Attempting to shake away the last vestiges of the surreal, she moves her blonde head from side to side, her hair swishing around her shoulders as she continues to stare at the belongings scattered about her room. As she continues to force herself back into the present and forget about the past. So determined is she to put everything behind her that she almost convinces herself that it never happened, that it never occurred. Instead, she burrows into her blankets and reaches for her face mask, determined to get back to sleep. Determined to forget about it all. But even as her eyes close, even as she drifts off into an uneasy sleep, the Ghost's last sentence completes itself in her dreams.

_He never stopped loving you._

And as a hesitant smile forms upon her face, an unseen clock begins chiming the second hour.


	3. Stave Three

**Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits**

_Click. Diiing. Diiing._

Mumbling softly, Sarah throws her arm over her eyes, burrowing deeper under her thick white comforter as the clock begins to chime the second hour. Her blonde hair is splayed over her fluffy white pillow, her hands are curled into loose fists, and discordant shadows drift across her face, illuminated only by the light of the silvery moon shining through the clear glass window. And even though she tries, even though she pushes them aside even in her sleep, memories of her parents and Bryce and Chuck flicker through her dreams, each more poignant, each more powerful than the last. But one image is clearer than the rest. One memory is stronger than the others. One sentiment echoes relentlessly through her mind.

_He never stopped loving you._

So as her eyes open and she instinctually reaches to slide aside the mask she's forgotten to wear to bed, it's Chuck's face that she sees. And when she rolls onto her side to glance at the clock, upsetting the shadows which have drifted onto her bed, it's Chuck's features that she glimpses. And when she realizes that the clock reads 2:02 and there's still no ghost in sight, it's the previous Ghost's parting words that she reflects upon. The words that she never allowed him to speak. The words that she still isn't sure she ever heard.

Biting her lower lip, Sarah pushes herself into a sitting position as countless emotions struggle to the surface of her tumultuous blue eyes. Because even though she isn't sure whether she can believe it, and even though she doesn't really know what to do with the information, she can't help the pang of hope which resounds within her chest, or the prickle of longing which threads through her veins. She can't help the hesitant smile from skirting across her lips, or the way that her pulse increases when she considers the evidence. When she thinks about the kiss in Barstow, or the dance at Ellie's wedding, or the way Chuck's looked at her for the last three years. A look that hasn't changed, an expression that hasn't wavered even in spite of their rigorous six month training. Even in spite of the brutal regimen she's exposed him to, in hopes of keeping him safe. In hopes of keeping him alive. A regimen she's forced him to endure so that she doesn't have to suffer the pain of losing him just as she's lost everyone else.

But as she considers everyone she's lost, as she considers everyone that's died, her thoughts suddenly shift. And even though it's becoming harder to deny the hope that seeps into her chest, even though it's becoming harder to ignore the longing that courses through her veins, she can't deny the fear that pulses through her gut. She can't deny the cold fingers of panic that prickle across her skin when she considers the fact that Chuck could be next. That she could lose him, just like she's lost everyone else. That he can be taken from her, that he can be ripped away, that he can vanish without even giving her the chance to say good-bye.

So as the glowing red numbers of her alarm clock shift to 2:05 and she begins to realize anew that there is no Ghost in sight, and even as she glances around her room, looking for the expected visitor, searching for another glowing specter, she allows the fear and the panic to triumph over the hope and the longing. She allows herself to remember the look on Chuck's face when she shot Mauser, instead of reflecting on the loving, radiant expression in his eyes every time he's seen her thereafter. And she allows herself to believe, even for a moment, that she's doing the right thing. That even in spite of the memories, even in spite of the lessons, she's right in keeping Chuck out. She's right in keeping a professional distance. She's right in refusing to open up and give in to her feelings, no matter how much she longs to let go. No matter how much she longs to learn that it's okay to give in.

And as she loses herself in these thoughts, as she buries everything she most desires, she almost doesn't notice the eerie green light streaming underneath the miniscule gap of her door, creeping along the floor and illuminating her shaggy white rug. She almost doesn't see it drift up her bed sheets and dance around her still, tense frame, casting shadows upon her pale skin. She almost doesn't hear the jovial, high pitched laugh which echoes through her bedroom, and the sound of tinkling bells which reverberates along her floor boards. It's only when the light and the laughter and the bells becomes more intense, becomes more fervent that she finally blinks and glances around once more.

"Who's there?" she calls, her hand automatically reaching toward the knife lying haphazardly upon her mattress. "Show yourself." But even at her words, and even as her fingers find purchase upon the handle of the blade, no one stirs within the shadows of her room. No glowing being emerges from within the crevices of her suite. Furrowing her brow, Sarah glances at the gap of her door, at the green light which pools underneath the heavy slab of oak. And when the jolly laugh penetrates the still night air, causing the hair at the back of her neck to rise, she folds her lips and considers her choices.

She can simply ignore the light and try to go back to sleep. Pretend like the being she knows is there really isn't.

Or she can ignore the chilly tingling racing through her veins, the telltale goose bumps breaking out onto her arms, get out of bed, and greet the otherworldly creature apparently waiting for her in the hall.

Perhaps it's the deep-seated emotion she's become so good at burying, or maybe it's the deep desire she has to discover the truth, but even as she weighs the thoughts within her mind, even as she considers the options from which she must choose, she finds herself drawing back the covers and climbing out of bed. She finds herself glancing uncertainly at her knife, then leaving it behind, the lethal blade glinting uselessly in the moonlight. And she finds herself padding across the room to her door, her hand trembling slightly as she reaches for the knob.

The moment the door opens, the moment she steps out into the hall, her senses are assaulted by the plethora of sights, of sounds, and of smells which greet her. Long strands of ivy hang from the ceiling, the many intricate leaves highlighting every curve and accenting every corner. Great bunches of mistletoe adorn the walls, the glistening green foliage adding to the light which is even brighter here in the hall. And interspersed with it all, magnificent in its plumage, fantastic in its design are many bunches of holly, adorned with red berries and bringing a festive atmosphere to the forest which has suddenly sprouted within Sarah's hotel.

Stepping through the virtual grove with a look of astonished bewilderment, the sounds of merry laughter and tinkly bells punctuating each step, Sarah brushes aside a particularly long strand of ivy even while the smell of many assorted foods wafts through the air, the fragrance drifting around her nose and teasing her nostrils. Sniffing in mouthwatering delight, the blonde spy barely has time to wonder where the phenomenal smell is coming from, where the incredible food is that apparently awaits in hidden supply. Because as she comes to the center of the hallway, as her pulse increases at the thought of what she might find, as her fingers continue to itch for the secure handle of her blade, she finds a gigantic hill of food piled upon the plush brown hotel carpet. Mounds of turkeys and chicken and ham, heaps of stuffing and potatoes and cranberries, stacks of juicy oranges and rosy apples and succulent pears, countless pies and cakes and chocolates, even an assortment of punch and merlot wine and imported beer, all accumulated in one tantalizing peak, one alluring mound, one delicious mountain. And on top of it all, wearing a long, shimmery green dress and a velvety red robe, a thick wreath of holly crowning her flowing brown hair, is a woman, a _Ghost_ who looks just like Ellie herself. And as she tips her head back in melodious laughter, Sarah notices the cup of merlot wine in her slender hand, an unfilled knife holster around her waist, and the jubilant smile upon her glowing face.

"It's about time," the brunette says, raising her glass in a toast to the spy. "I feel like I've been waiting for hours."

"I'm sorry," Sarah apologizes. "I just . . ." And then, because she isn't really sure what she's supposed to say, and because she's still in shock over the drastic change of scenery that has occurred overnight within her hallway, she quickly switches tactics. "Who are you?" she queries, gazing at the Ghost as she shields her eyes from the light.

"Who am I?" the woman repeats, grabbing a chicken leg and taking a dainty bite. "But you've seen the likes of me before."

"I have?" Sarah questions dubiously, eyeing the other doors as she wonders why their occupants aren't suddenly storming the hall.

"Of course!" the Spirit replies gaily, her voice so like Ellie's yet so very different. "You must have walked with my other siblings. With the younger members of my family?"

Sarah's mind immediately flickers to Chuck, the image of his handsome face causing her chest to twist almost painfully. But then she remembers that the woman she's speaking with isn't Ellie, and that she isn't referring to Chuck. That Chuck isn't floating around the town, wearing a green dress and haunting the inhabitants of Burbank. So as she pushes the painful image from her mind, even while a thrill of yearning courses down her spine, she shakes her head and sends her blonde hair swishing about her shoulders. "Not that I know of," she replies lightly. "Do you have many brothers and sisters?"

"Over two-thousand," the Ghost replies jubilantly, sipping from her cup of wine.

"Wow," Sarah replies, arching her brow. "That's a pretty big family." And then, because she's tired of standing in her hallway, and because she simply wants this night to end, and maybe even because she longs to know what she will be shown next, she continues. "I learned earlier that I will be shown many things tonight," she says, even as her muscles tense and her heart pounds a discordant rhythm within her chest. "Are you here to show me more?"

The Ghost stares at her for a long moment before finally setting aside her chicken leg. "That depends. Are you ready to see these things, Sarah?" she asks, her gaze so intense that it seems to pierce right into Sarah's soul.

Swallowing nervously, Sarah's eyes flicker to the wall behind the Ghost, the selfsame mask shielding the emotions threatening to reveal themselves within her bright blue gaze. "Yes," she says hesitantly, then nods her head. "Yes. I'm ready."

"Very well," the Ghost states, nodding in approval as she drifts down the side of her mountainous feast. "Then grab onto my dress, and we'll begin."

Pinching her lips together, Sarah feels a momentary urge to turn around, to run away, to escape to the safe recesses of her room. The familiar urge to hide behind her mask, to hide behind her shield, to hide away from the life she's hidden from for so long. But as the Ghost begins to near, as her flowing dress finally brushes against Sarah's hand, the spy inhales sharply and clenches her fingers around the soft green material. "Are you sure you're okay to fly?" she asks doubtfully, glancing at the cup of wine in the Ghost's hand.

Tipping her head back once more, a peal of laughter bursts from the Ghost's lips. "I've never been more so," she says. And then she pushes off from the floor and sends them both fluttering toward the ceiling. Sarah's eyes widen as the ceiling rises up to meet them, as the plaster looms closer and closer. But just as she braces herself for the crash, just as she's about to close her eyes and grit her teeth, the ceiling dissolves and she finds herself floating through the cool night air, the stars shining brightly up above. And even though she doesn't feel the same lightness of heart, even though she doesn't feel the same wonderful sensation of tingling and warmth, she still can't stop herself from laughing aloud as she watches the buildings and houses zoom by.

"Where are we going?" Sarah shouts for the second time that night, wishing again that Chuck could join her on this journey. Wishing again that Chuck could be here by her side. But then she remembers her reflections, she remembers her memories, and she pushes the thought aside, instead waiting for the Ghost's response.

"There are many things you've forsaken in your life, Sarah Walker," the Ghost replies, her tone light and melodious even in the chilly night air. "Many happinesses that you have relinquished. It's time that you acknowledge them for what they really are, so that you will truly understand what you have missed."

"What do you mean?" Sarah shouts, even though her stomach sinks slightly at the Ghost's words. But the Ghost says nothing in return. In fact, she doesn't even acknowledge the question. Instead, a knowing smile spreads across her lips, and she continues to transport them through the luminous sky.

And as Sarah finds herself gliding through Burbank, the familiar shops and homes and scenery passing by her feet, she can't stop herself from considering the Ghost's statement, from pondering her proclamation. She can't stop herself from reflecting on the woman soaring through the night sky by her side, the specter who looks so much like Ellie Bartowski. The spirit who looks so much like the woman who plays a central role in Chuck's life. The woman who plays a central role in the life she won't allow herself to have, won't even allow herself to imagine, but wishes were hers all the same. And as she does so, as she gazes above her at the luminous being transporting her through the city of Burbank, she thinks about Chuck. She reflects on their last meeting. And she remembers the invitation which she had turned down.

So when the Ghost begins to broaden their journey, to carry her through the entire state of California, past the gentle rolling hills and the sprawling redwood forests and the splashing ocean depths, she wonders what it would be like if she were part of a happy family. She wonders what it would be like if she could join those below in celebrating Christmas, in celebrating each other, in celebrating _life_. She wonders what it would be like to let go, to give in, and to open up to Chuck. And when she finds herself floating through the entirety of the United States, from the snowy mountains of Colorado to the flat plains of Texas to the sparkling lakes of Michigan, a deep yearning, an unexpected longing resounds within her chest and reverberates through her core. And when they begin to cross the Atlantic, when they float past the huts of Asia, and the castles of Europe, and the wilds of Africa, she begins to see, to understand. She begins to _know_. The Ghost is showing her the world, each place different, each place unique, yet each place populated with loving people and happy friends, each of them enjoying each other in a way that Sarah's forgotten how but which she's longed to do for most of her life.

And when they begin to glimpse the people she knows, the people that make up her crazy, guarded life, she starts to feel even more connected. She starts to feel even more linked with this joyous, happy world. There's Cole Barker, his rugged features easy to spot as he enjoys himself amongst his fellow M16 agents at this year's Christmas soiree. And here's Roan Montgomery, a grin stretched across his face as he wraps each arm around a gorgeous woman, an empty martini glass on his wet bar. And there's Morgan and Anna, enjoying their first Christmas together as a live-in couple, a scant number of presents under the tree but a smile on their faces as they revel in the joy of being together. And next comes Carina, as . . . but _No_, Sarah shields her eyes and the Ghost cocks her head to the side _("I didn't realize you could do that with whipped cream," she says.)_.

In each place, in each locality they visit, they find people enjoying each other, the very sight of which increases the powerful, poignant jolt of longing echoing through Sarah's core. The very sight of which causes her to wish that she had accepted a certain invitation after all, even when she's still not sure what to do about Chuck, even when she's still not sure where to go from here, even when she's still not sure what it is she wants to do with the suppressed emotions coursing through her gut.

So when they fly into the darkened basement of a dilapidated home, its shadowy corners obscured by piles of wrinkled clothes, when Sarah's gaze falls upon ragtag furniture and scattered bottles of liquor and beer, when her naked calves brush against a dingy couch and her bare feet step upon a dirty rug, she can't help but blink in surprise. She can't help but glance around the room, glance around at her surroundings, attempting to figure out where she's found herself now. Attempting to equate this dingy room with the many colorful, joyful places she's just visited. And when she notices the fat white ferret in the corner, and her eyes rake across a lone mistletoe hanging above a tattered photo of Anna Wu, and the door finally opens and two men walk inside, she can't help but raise her eyebrows in surprise. Crossing her arms over her chest, she watches as Jeff and Lester enter the room and slowly descend the stairs, their arms laden with a half-eaten Turkey, a crumbling peach pie and a few small apples.

"What did I tell you, Jeffrey?" says Lester, polishing a battered piece of fruit upon his plaid shirt. "People always leave holiday leftovers in the trash. It's like a virtual grocery store, fresh for the picking."

"Right," Jeff nods sagely, sniffing the burnt meat. "Only without the pesky problem of cash."

"Yes, well," Lester states, his shoulders drooping, "If Emmett hadn't discovered our ample supply of videography, we might still have our jobs."

"I guess I shouldn't have left it in my office," Jeff admits. "Too many people use the men's restroom."

"That's okay, Jeffrey," Lester consoles, plopping the apples onto the ferret's tarnished table. "Who needs jobs when we have each other? Friendship, my man," he says, pointing at Jeff with a shrewd gleam in his eyes, "That's what it's all about."

"Okay," Sarah finally says, interrupting the moment of male bonding as turns to the Ghost with a smirk. "I understand that you're going to show me many things I don't want to see tonight. But Jeff and Larry?"

"You'd do well to pay attention to the camaraderie of friends," the Ghost replies wisely, her green glow illuminating the scene. "It's something that you, yourself, have forgotten on occasion."

An indignant light flashes within Sarah's eyes, even as a guilty flush colors her cheeks. Opening her mouth to respond, she forms the words to tell the Ghost that she's wrong, that she doesn't know what she's talking about. But before she can speak, before she can even decide what to say, her mind flickers to a familiar handsome face, to a familiar pair of gleaming brown eyes, to a familiar forlorn expression which has haunted her for the last several months. And suddenly, a single statement reverberates through her thoughts: _I miss you, Sarah. I miss you all the time._

Biting her lower lip, Sarah's heart twists in her chest as the meaning of the Ghost's words becomes all too clear. So when the Ghost lifts off again, and the night sky looms once more, the silvery moon shining before her and the city of Burbank whizzing by her feet, she continues to think about Chuck. She continues to think about the look on his face. And she continues to wonder what it would be like if he were here with her now.

And when the Ghost finally brings them back to solid ground, when they finally land in the family room of a bright yellow house, and her eyes finally begin to adjust to her surroundings, Chuck's face is still fresh within her mind. His forlorn, dejected expression is still clear within her head. And their conversation from just a day before is still playing within her thoughts. So as she glances at her surroundings and she registers the home, as she discovers the people, the family that mirrors one she lost long ago, she does so while reflecting on the man who has become the center of her world. The man who has become her closest friend, her one confidant, even when she pushes him away time and again. And it's because of this that the scene holds even more power, even more draw. It's because of this that she finds herself shutting down once again.

Glancing at the glistening Christmas tree in the corner, Sarah notices its many ornaments lovingly crafted by childish hands, its festive garland comprised of popcorn and cranberries, its decorative tree topper an angel cutout scribbled in with marker and crayon. And when her gaze drifts to the area underneath the tree, she notices the assortment of wrapped boxes in various shapes and sizes, the half-eaten plate of cookies and the empty glass with droplets of milk around its rim, and the slumbering yellow kitten with a bright red bow around its neck. And when she finally registers the little girl standing beside it all, a huge grin stretched across her face and her bright green eyes dancing with unrestrained excitement, her heart skips a beat and she takes an inadvertent step toward the child. Toward the little girl who reminds her so much of herself when she was young.

So when the child squeals in delight and drops to her knees, reaching for the kitten, a hesitant smile stretches across Sarah's face. And when the child's tiny fingers brush again the feline's soft yellow fur, causing the animal to awake, Sarah is forcefully reminded of the day her parents gave her Whiskers, her crazy gray cat. And when the child's parents come down the stairs moments later to find the creature curled within the girl's arms, his content purr adding to the overall cadence of the scene, she bites her lower lip as her selfsame mask gradually descends and she watches the loving interactions unfold before her.

"Mommymommymommymommymommy!" the little girl cries, jumping to her feet and dashing across the room, causing the kitten to mewl in startled surprise.

"Abbi Abbi Abbi Abbi," her mother responds, wrapping her arms around the delighted bundle and bestowing a kiss on the top of her brunette head. "I see you began unwrapping presents early, young lady," she says, glancing at the squirming kitten.

"He was right there, Mommy, honest," Abbi replies, the creature in question yelping slightly as she squeezes him tightly. "I couldn't help it."

"I don't know," her father chimes in, leaning against the wall with a grin. "We might have to ask Santa to take back all these presents. Good little girls usually wait for their parents to open their gifts."

"I've been a very good girl, Daddy," Abbi replies, twisting out of her mother's embrace and shooting her father a wide grin. "I only unwrapped one present without you."

"Well," her father hesitates, winking at her mother. "I guess there's really only one way to find out." And with that, he extracts his hand from the pocket of his robe and curls his fingers in midair.

"Oh, no!" she cries, the kitten jumping from her arms as she writhes away from her father's touch.

"I'm afraid so," the man returns. "It's time for the Tickle Test." And he reaches for his daughter, tickling her stomach feverishly and causing her to burst into peals of laughter. When her mother joins in with the game, she finally falls to the floor, her riotous giggles reverberating through the room. A few moments later, when the little girl has had her fill of tickling, the happy family coalesces into a group hug. And in the center of her parents' embrace, the little girl leans her head against her father's stomach as the man leans over and gives his wife a gentle kiss on the lips.

And for a moment, Sarah is transported backward in time, to a bright blue house with a happy, loving family and a little girl who thought things would never change. Who believed her parents were the center of her world, the pinnacle of her universe, and that they would always be together. So as she continues to watch the delighted antics, as she continues to observe the cuddling, joyful family, a painful ache pierces her chest and courses through her veins.

"Why are we here?" she suddenly demands, narrowing her eyes and whirling toward the Ghost. "Why are you showing me this?"

A flicker of sympathy flashes through the Ghost's luminous eyes, and she reaches out to place a comforting hand on the spy's shoulder. "Look again at the man," she instructs, waving a glowing hand toward the family. And then, when Sarah furrows her forehead in confusion, she gestures once more. "Look again at the father," she prods.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah turns in the direction indicated, the same ache intensifying within her chest as she watches the family begin to open presents. As she watches the family begin to enjoy Christmas. Taking a few unintentional steps toward the trio, her eyes rake the man's face, taking in his shaggy brown hair, studying his bright green eyes, watching as he wraps a loving arm around his wife's shoulders. Watching as he bestows upon his wife the same look her father used to bestow upon her mother. And then, just when she feels that she must turn away, just when she knows that she can't take anymore, she sees it. She sees _him_. And she remembers. "That's Chris Nolan," she breathes, her lips parting in surprise.

"Your first mission," the Ghost nods, smiling gently. "The first person you ever saved in your life as a spy."

"I was fresh out of the Academy," Sarah replies, her gaze taking on a distant, far off look. "Straight out of training. And the CIA told me that if I didn't protect him, if I didn't keep him safe from a foreign warlord, then the information he had accidentally discovered would fall into the wrong hands. And he would get killed in the process."

"And," the Ghost adds, her smile brightening when the little girl pounces onto her father's lap, throwing her arms around his neck, "You were told that if he was killed, then he would be leaving a family behind. A wife and a newborn baby."

"I remember," Sarah replies, nodding slowly. And along with that memory, along with the image of the man and his wife and little girl, she remembers something else. She remembers that she had worked harder, she had fought stronger, she had battled relentlessly to keep this man safe. To keep him alive. To keep him from being torn from the family she knew he must love, the family she knew he must return to. _The family so much like my own._

"How interesting," the Ghost states, glancing at Sarah, "That you deny yourself the same thing that you ensured Chris Nolan received. That you deny yourself the joy of family, the happiness of love, when you're the reason that so many others have it themselves."

Her stomach muscles tightening, Sarah crosses her arms over her chest as the selfsame mask strengthens upon her features. "It's not that easy," she says, even as a trace of emotion trails through her voice. "It's not that simple. I'm a spy. An agent. I have people to take care of. I have people to keep safe." _I have people to keep alive. _Again, Chuck's innocent, compassionate face flashes through her mind, and her heart twists in her chest even as she wills her careful shield to remain in place. Even as she attempts to push his image from her mind, even as she tries to ignore the icy prickling that traverses her veins. The icy prickling that occurs every time she thinks about the possibility, however remote, however unlikely, that she might lose him if she allows herself to let go. If she allows herself to give in. If she allows herself to open up to the man whose life is in her hands.

Shaking her head almost imperceptibly, a wise twinkle flashes within the Ghost's glowing eyes. "You shut out the world, Sarah Walker," she says levelly. "You push love and happiness from your life, all under the guise of keeping people safe. All under the illusion that you have something to prove, that you have something to accomplish, even when that which you strive for is already in your reach."

"I don't know what you mean," Sarah replies blankly, even as Chuck's features sharpen within her mind.

"Don't you?" the Ghost says, arching a knowing brow. "Well, then. Maybe we should see how the other members of your team are celebrating the holiday." And before Sarah can say anything else, before she even has time to object, the Spirit reaches for Sarah's arm and takes off into the night. And suddenly, the bright yellow house is dissolving, the family is dissolving, and the world is passing by her feet. Christmas lights glitter in the distance, embankments of snow and forests of pine and rivers of ice dash by her eyes, and families and lovers and friends celebrate and mingle in the midst of it all.

When they finally land and Sarah finds herself standing in another home, when her eyes flicker from a new, more professionally decorated Christmas tree to a baby grand piano to glasses of eggnog and plates of fudge and bowls of peppermint, she blinks and attempts to regain her footing. Attempts to reacclimate herself to her surroundings. Attempts to push the last scene from her mind, full of love and family and memories which she does not wish to harbor. Which are too painful to reflect upon. She can only hope that this new scene isn't quite so family-oriented.

But as she glances at the photos lining the walls, she notices several with a chubby brunette boy and his thinner younger brunette sister. And even though they're not touching in any of the photos, and even though the boy even leans a little to the side, there's a sense of camaraderie, a feeling of friendship between the children that causes her to stare at the photos for a little longer than necessary. That causes the same pang of wistfulness to whisper through her slender frame, even as she tries to push the feeling aside. And as she continues to look at the pictures, as she continues to study the sense of companionship between the two family members, she suddenly realizes. She suddenly knows. This night will be filled with many things she does not wish to see, many things she does not wish to remember. And at the center of it all, painful and poignant and altogether real, will be happy, loving families, each with the ability to remind her of what she lost all those Christmases so long ago. Each with the ability to make her regret where her life has taken her. Each with the ability to remind her of what she longs for now.

So when she takes in the family sprawled around the living room, when she registers their loving interactions, when she notices an older version of the girl depicted in the pictures, and when she sees a wiry blonde man with his arm wrapped around her shoulders and a little blonde boy sneaking handfuls of peppermints, she takes a deep breath and braces herself for another painful scene. Braces herself for another poignant lesson. Braces herself for another happy family. So when the door opens, blowing in a chilly gust of snow, and a muscular brunette man enters the home, she can't stop her eyes from widening in surprise.

"That's Casey," she exclaims, watching her partner drop his suitcase in the hall and slam the door shut. "We're at Casey's house?"

"This is his mother's house," the Ghost clarifies, smiling as the small blonde boy tiptoes stealthily behind his uncle. "This was his childhood home."

Sarah's chest clenches at the thought, at the idea of watching even Casey enjoy a happy family moment, even as her lips curve into a small smirk as she notices the little boy attempting to sneak up on his uncle. _This isn't going to end well,_ Sarah thinks, just as Casey grunts and reaches behind him, yanking the child off his feet. "What did I tell you about sneaking up on me?" he growls, hiding a smile as the little boy giggles when he hoists him over his shoulder.

"Always move with stealth and make sure to cover your ass," the child recites, laughing as his uncle punctuates his last word with a slap on his small behind.

"John!" the woman cries, a thin crease appearing between her eyes. "What are you teaching my seven-year old?"

"Just the hard facts of life, sis," Casey replies, leaning over to give the woman a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas," he says, tickling his nephew's stomach and smirking when the boy laughs.

"Merry Christmas, you bad influence," his sister returns, shaking her head at her brother's antics. "We've been wondering when you'd show up."

"Had to work late," Casey replies, placing the child back onto the ground. "Coworkers were getting a little antsy with their lady feelings." Blushing slightly, Sarah's gaze falls to the ground as the little boy scampers off and a high pitched cry permeates the room.

"John!" comes the happy cheer of an elderly woman, her entire face splitting into a lustrous grin. "Johnny! You're here." Rushing across the room, she throws her arms around Casey, squeezing him much harder than her older years should have allowed.

"Hi, Mom," Casey replies, his features softening as he slowly entwines the woman within his muscular arms and places a quick kiss on the top of her head. "How've you been?"

"I've been missing you, of course," his mother returns, leaning back to get a good look at her son. "Johnny, you're wasting away. What on earth have you been eating?"

"Oh, you know," Casey grunts, shrugging as he drops his arms back to his sides, "The usual."

"Well, we'll have to put a stop to that," the woman replies, shaking her head ruefully as her shoulder-length grey hair swirls about her shoulders. "It's time that you fattened up some, young man."

A flicker of affection wafts across Casey's face, to be quickly buried by his usual stoic façade. "Whatever you say, Mom," he says.

"Oh, Johnny," the woman intones, cupping Casey's angular cheek in her hand. "I've missed you, honey. I'm so glad you've come home."

Watching the scene from the corner of the room, Sarah can't help the jolt of jealousy which pierces her gut as she watches her partner interact with his mother. As she watches Casey's hidden life, his secret world, his undiscovered existence. As she notices that the life she never knew he had mirrors the one that she now realizes she wants for herself. The life she's spent twenty years desiring, twenty years craving, twenty years pushing away. Ever since her own mother died, ever since she realized how quickly people can be taken, how quickly everything can be ripped apart, how quickly the world can change. And as a highly reluctant Casey is wheedled by his family members into singing Christmas carols, and as the little blonde boy sidles up to his uncle and gives him a picture he'd drawn in school, and even as a harassed Casey finally raises an unenthusiastic glass in a toast to his coworkers ("May they get over their lady feelings and actually enjoy the holiday."), she has to bite her lower lip and turn her head from the scene.

"How interesting," the Ghost says, echoing the thoughts which she will not acknowledge, "That your partner finds a way to spend time with his family, to enjoy Christmas, when you deny yourself the simple pleasure because you state you have a job to do. Tell me, Sarah. Is your job any different from John Casey's?"

"Of course not," Sarah replies tightly, narrowing her eyes. But even as the words leave her lips, even as they sound in the illuminated air between them, she knows that they're not entirely true. That her job isn't the same as Casey's. Not exactly. Because Casey isn't worried every moment of every day. Casey doesn't spend every second waiting for something to go wrong, waiting for Chuck to get taken, waiting for Chuck to get _killed_. Casey doesn't spend his life waiting for the world to be torn away from him.

"Then why is it that you can't celebrate Christmas?" the Ghost queries, interrupting her ruminations as she quirks her head to the side. "Why is it that you can't enjoy family?"

"My family was taken away from me," Sarah snaps, twisting toward the Ghost. "My family was destroyed. How can I enjoy this holiday when the last time I had a good Christmas, the last time I celebrated, my mother died in my arms?" _When I know that anyone can be taken, at any time?_

"The more important question," the Ghost says, placing a cool, gentle hand onto Sarah's arm, "Is how can you not?"

Sarah opens her mouth to respond, to tell the Ghost that she's wrong. That she doesn't know what she's talking about. That after everything that's happened, after every one that she's lost, there's no way that she can give in, there's no way she can let go. There's no way she can let her guard down. Not when every time she does, every time she lets someone in, she loses someone else. The problem is, as she watches Casey interact with his family, as she watches him enjoy his loved ones in a way that she's forgotten how, she can't think of anything to say. She's at a loss for words. Because if John Casey the burnout, John Casey the assassin, John Casey the hardassed NSA Agent can let go, can give in, can open up to his family, then she's not quite sure what she can say for herself. She's not quite sure what defense, what excuse she has to give. She's not quite sure if she really even wants to give one.

And for a moment, the image of her own family fills her mind anew. The image of her mother and her father and herself, all much younger, all much happier, all much more innocent. All separated, divided, torn apart. Pursing her lips, she grits her teeth and tries to push aside the image. Tries to push aside the pain which courses through her chest. Tries to forget the fact that she'll never have that again. But as she does so, as she convinces herself that what she wants can never be, her thoughts shift once more. Only this time, they converge around another family. This time, they center around the man who has unwittingly become the center of her life, of her world, of her universe. This time, they settle on Chuck and Ellie, the family that was never hers but that have invited her into their home, into their hearts, into their lives. And as her thoughts shift, as they course through her mind, her chest clenches as she remembers the invitation that she turned down.

And when Sarah finally closes her mouth, when she finally realizes that she has nothing else to say, the Ghost simply smiles gently and wraps her chilly fingers around Sarah's bare arm. "Come, Sarah," she says. "There's another member of your team that we have yet to visit." And before Sarah can object, before she can even say anything else, the Ghost pulls them off the ground, pulls them out of the house and up into the starry sky. And as Casey's home dissolves behind them, and as Casey's family disappears, she finds her breath catching in her throat as she waits for what she knows will come next. As she waits for the family she knows she will next see.

Landing in the Bartowski family living room, her heart gives a painful jolt, and she takes a few unbidden steps toward the scene which unfolds before her eyes. A hearty fire crackles in the fireplace, casting an orange glow upon the thick, glittering Christmas tree standing by the window, its many branches adorned with professional and homemade ornaments alike, its pine needles decorated with strands of gleaming garland, its uppermost branch bedecked with a shining star. And underneath the tree, underneath the dazzling pine is a pile of presents wrapped in an assortment of papers, each with a different name upon its top, each with a meaningful gift hidden inside. Glasses of coffee and hot chocolate rest upon the coffee table, a plate of cookies and muffins lying by their side while a pound cake waits in ready supply on the kitchen counter. And sitting around the room, with bright eyes and happy smiles, a few presents already stacked beside them, are Devon and Ellie and Chuck, enjoying their Christmas morning in a way that sends a powerful pang of longing coursing through Sarah's chest. A powerful pang of longing that intensifies still further when she notices the lone stocking hanging from the mantelpiece, stuffed to the brim and sporting her name in glittery blue.

"It seems they were hoping to have you join them," the Ghost says softly, motioning toward the stocking.

Swallowing away the lump threatening to lodge itself within her throat, Sarah says nothing. Instead, she nods numbly and takes a few inadvertent steps toward the loving family positioned around the room. Toward the loving family that had invited her to join them time and again. The loving family that had tried to make her one of their own. Glancing at Chuck, her heart skips a beat and her fingers ache to touch him as she takes a seat by his side. As she notices that he continuously glances toward the door. As she wonders what it is that he's hoping to see.

So lost is she in her thoughts, in her suppressed emotions, that it takes her a moment to realize that the Bartowskis are opening their presents. It takes her a moment to come back to the present scene. It's only when she hears the Captain's voice that she blinks and glances toward the sound.

"Dude, this hat is styling," says Devon, pulling a black fedora from a large square box and plucking it onto his head. "Thanks, babe."

"Don't look at me," Ellie replies, eyeing the hat with guarded disdain as her husband poses with his lips curled into a practiced pout. "That must have come from one of your frat brothers."

"Actually," Chuck says, laughing as the hat falls into the Captain's eyes, "It came from me. Something about it just screamed 'Captain Awesome'."

"Right?" Devon replies with a grin, holding out a fist. "Hands up, bro," he coaches, knocking his fingers against the computer nerd's proffered fist.

"Great," Ellie says, rolling her eyes as she slips her finger underneath the flap of her own present. "Maybe next year you can buy him a trench coat to go with the hat."

"Don't tempt me," Chuck smirks, then glances again toward the door. When he finds that it's still closed, when he sees that no one has come into the room, his face falls and he looks down at his hands. And as he does so, as Sarah notices the joy slowly seep from his cinnamon brown eyes, her own smile falters and she looks away. Because as she glances back at the stocking, as she turns her head toward the closed front door, as she gazes once more at Chuck, she suddenly understands who it is that he's looking for. She suddenly knows who it is that's causing his shoulders to slump, his smile to fade, his face to fall. And when Devon speaks up, she becomes all the more certain.

"Haven't heard from her, huh?" he queries, tipping back his fedora and giving Chuck a sympathetic smile.

Sighing, Chuck's brown curls bounce into his eyes as he slowly shakes his head. "Not today," he admits.

"I'm sorry, bro," Devon replies, his hat detracting slightly from his commiserating gaze. "Maybe she'll still come by."

"Chuck," Ellie interrupts, dropping her half-opened gift and motioning toward her brother's untouched pile of presents. "You still haven't opened your gifts. Why don't you see what Santa brought you? In fact," she continues, folding her lips, "Why don't you try the long, thin one first?"

Blinking in surprise, Chuck follows the motion of his sister's hand, his eyes landing on the suggested present. But even as he picks up the box, even as his fingers slip underneath the colorful wrapping paper, even as gentle ripping sounds fill the room, his expression remains downcast, his shoulders continue to slump, and he looks once more in hopeful doubt toward the front door. And as he does so, as his features twist in pain, Sarah can't stop the painful twisting of her chest. _Oh, Chuck. I'm so sorry._

So when he finally finishes unwrapping his present, when the box finally rests exposed upon his lap, when the paper finally lays crumpled into a messy ball by his feet, it takes them both a moment to register what's glaring at them both. It takes them both a moment to notice the contents of Chuck's gift. "A plane ticket to London?" the computer nerd says blankly, lifting the ticket from its oversized box.

"I paid for it out of the emergency stash that Dad left us," she explains, even as Devon looks at her in bewilderment. Clearly, the Captain hadn't realized just what his wife was getting her baby brother. "You've always talked about going to Europe, Chuck. You've always wanted to get out, to explore the world. Maybe it's time you actually got away and figured out your next move."

"But I already know my next move, Ellie," Chuck states carefully, dropping the ticket back into the box. "I already know what I want to do with my life."

"Please don't say that you want to spend your life with Sarah," Ellie pleads, causing the spy's chest to clench painfully. Causing her mind to drift back to a memory, to a scene shared between Chuck and Ellie just one Christmas before, so different from the one she's watching now. "She hasn't been around for the last six months," Ellie continues. "She didn't even come to Christmas, even though we both asked her. Chuck, it's time that you think about moving on."

"It's not that easy, Ellie," Chuck replies, sighing heavily. "I can't just 'move on.' Not from Sarah. Not like that."

"But why, Chuck?" Ellie demands, striding across the room so that she can sit beside her baby brother. Jumping back before the doctor can sit on her lap, Sarah watches the scene from a vantage point far closer than she might have liked, her careful mask slipping with each new word. "You deserve so much more than this. You deserve to be happy, to have someone who cares about you, to have someone who –"

"But Sarah cares about me," Chuck interrupts, his voice cracking on the spy's name and causing Sarah's heart to crack right along with it. Her fingers twitch by her side, longing to reach out to him, longing to touch him, longing to let him know that she's there. "You don't get it, Ellie," he continues. "You don't understand."

"What don't I understand, Chuck?" Ellie implores, grabbing her brother's hand. "That you've reached out to her over and over again, that you've constantly tried to open up even though she keeps pushing you away? That you've put your heart on the line more times than I can count? I understand all of that. And," she says, biting her lower lip, "I care about Sarah, too. I do. I just can't stand to see her hurt you again, Chuck."

"I know," Chuck replies, giving Ellie's hand a squeeze. "And I'm sorry. But you don't understand how I feel about her. You don't understand what she's done for me. The only reason I'm here right now? The only reason we're having this conversation? Is _because_ of Sarah. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me. She's saved my life more times than I can count."

He doesn't elaborate, he doesn't explain what he means. But as Ellie's lips grow thin with worry and desperate sympathy colors her dark hazel eyes, it's obvious that he doesn't really need to. The truth is apparent, the reality all too clear. Even if Ellie doesn't know his spy secrets, even if she doesn't understand exactly what he means, she can't deny the underlying feelings reflected within. They're too prevalent, they're too exposed. So when Chuck finally pushes himself off the couch, when he grabs his jacket and keys, when he begins to march across the room, Ellie doesn't look all too surprised to see him go. She only looks wary and upset. "I'm going to give it one more shot," he says, shrugging into his jacket.

"Chuck, wait," she pleads, jumping from the couch.

"What?" Chuck replies, his hand frozen halfway to the doorknob.

"Why are you doing this to yourself, little brother?" she demands, striding across the room and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Why are you chasing after someone whose spent the last six months pushing you out of her life?"

"Because," Chuck murmurs, turning to face his sister as Ellie's hand drifts slowly back to her side. "I love her, Ellie. I'm _in _love with her," he clarifies, his words punctuated by a sharp inhalation of breath from Sarah. "And nothing's going to change that. Not a missed Christmas dinner. Not a few bad months. Not even Sarah herself." Taking a deep breath, his gaze drifts to the dazzling Christmas tree. "And besides," he says, "It's Christmas. And Sarah should be here. Sarah should have another chance. I mean, what did Dickens say? God bless us, everyone?"

Sighing heavily, Ellie reaches out to curl her fingers around her brother's arm. "We'll be waiting for you, Chuck," she murmurs, squeezing his bicep. "But please, don't be too disappointed if it doesn't work out."

"I promise," Chuck nods, smiling gently at his sister. "I just want to give it one more shot." And with that, he removes his arm from Ellie's grasp and turns to open the door, zipping up his jacket and stepping out into the clear, crisp morning air.

"Where is he going?" Sarah demands, glancing at the Ghost as a turbulent emotional depth enters her cloudy blue eyes, an unguarded layer that even her shaky shield cannot hide.

"To the source of his pain," the Ghost replies sadly.

"Am I," Sarah swallows hard and squeezes her eyes shut, "Am I the source of his pain?" she asks, her voice crackling with unsuppressed emotion.

"I'm afraid so," the Ghost states. And then she waves her arm, sending a glowing green light cascading along the living room walls, along the plush brown carpet, along the towering pine tree glittering by the windowsill. And suddenly, the decorations dissolve, the living room dissolves, the entire Bartowski family dissolves and Sarah finds herself transplanted back into the hallway of her hotel suite, back into the place where this all began. Only this time, the greenery is gone, the mountain of food has disappeared, and the laughter and bells have long since faded into oblivion. In their place stands Chuck Bartowski, a desperately determined look within his coffee brown eyes and a festive bag clutched firmly within his strong, calloused hand.

Raising a shaky fist to knock on the door, he pounds once, twice, three times, before calling out to the unseen occupant of the room. Before calling out to Sarah herself, who should be home, who should be answering the door, who should be able to hear Chuck's knocks, to hear Chuck's voice, but who makes no attempt to answer the door. Who makes no attempt to answer his desperate pleas, even as he continues to knock, even as he continues to call out, even as he continues to try. "Please, Sarah," he beseeches, leaning his forehead against the wooden frame. "I just want to talk."

But even with his pleas, even with his cries, even with his desperate, determined effort, the door does not open. The knob does not turn. And no voice calls out in reply. Finally, Chuck takes a deep, heavy breath and allows his fist to fall down by his side. "I'm sorry if I'm bothering you," he says to the wooden impediment blocking himself from the spy. "I just miss you. I miss you every day. And I was hoping that you'd come to dinner." Swallowing hard, his brow creases and his eyes begin to gleam. "Please, Sarah," he repeats, his voice breaking slightly. "Just open the door so that we can talk."

"I'm here, Chuck," Sarah cries, her bright blue eyes filled with sorrow, with dejection, with pain. She longs to touch, to hold, to comfort the man pounding on her door. The man whose entire face is twisted in sorrow, whose entire countenance is tumultuous with grief. The man who stands at the center of her life, of her world, at the center of her existence, even when she's spent the last six months pushing him away. Even when she's spent the last three years convincing him, convincing herself that what he wants can never be. But even as he knocks again, even as he calls out to her, no one appears to let him in. No one appears to allow him entrance into the solitary room. "Damn it!" she cries, whirling toward the Ghost. "Tell me that I open the door," she demands. "Tell me that I come out and talk to him."

"I don't understand," the Ghost replies, cocking her head. "Haven't you spent the last six months avoiding every conversation that Chuck Bartowski has tried to have? Haven't you spent the last six months avoiding any attempt at reconciliation? Why would you give in now?"

Shaking her head violently, Sarah advances quickly toward the specter. "I didn't understand how important it was to him," she states, gesturing toward the door "I didn't understand how much I was upsetting him." _I didn't understand how much I was hurting him. How much pain I was putting him through. _And then, much further down, buried so deep that she almost doesn't acknowledge it: _I didn't realize how much I was hurting myself._

"Didn't you?" the Ghost demands, arching a luminous brow. For some reason, the sight is even more disturbing, the image even more upsetting when Sarah remembers how much she looks like Ellie herself. And when the Ghost begins to repeat her own words, when Sarah's own voice slips from her lips and reverberates along the walls, the spy shivers slightly even as her chest twists from the sound. "There's nothing to say, Chuck. Things are the way they are. Now we need to move on."

"That's not fair," Sarah objects, her eyes flashing even as the pain intensifies upon her face. "I didn't know. I didn't understand."

But even under the spy's scrutinizing gaze, even faced with Sarah's angry stare, the Ghost doesn't back down. Instead, she takes a step closer to the blonde, a challenging look upon her radiant face. "Understand what?" she demands. "That you were shutting out happiness just when you needed it most? That you were shutting out love even when it had been offered time and again?"

"Yes," Sarah sputters, throwing up her hands. And then: "No!" And finally, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes: "Don't you understand?" she cries. "Don't you get it? I could lose him at any time. He could die at any minute. Just like Bryce. Just like my mother." _Just like every other person I've ever cared about. Just like every other person I've ever opened up to. Just like every other person I've ever let inside._

The Ghost stares at her for a long moment, Sarah's angry, desperate words echoing through the luminous air between them and reverberating upon the spy's ears. Finally, just when Sarah's about to say something else, just when she's about to demand to return home, the Ghost motions toward her vacant doorway. Toward the doorway which Chuck left minutes before, when it became apparent that Sarah wasn't going to open the door. "It seems that Chuck has left something for you, Sarah," she states, her unearthly glow flickering along the walls.

Despite herself, despite the way her pulse is racing, her muscles knotting, her adrenaline pulsing, Sarah turns in the direction indicated. And when her eyes alight upon the decorative bag, when she finds it leaning abandoned against the wooden door frame, her heart skips a beat and she takes several inadvertent steps toward the package. The first thing she notices is the tag sticking out of the top, messy writing scrawled across its surface. Bending closer to inspect the gift, her eyes scan the card, taking in the messy scrawl. _To Sarah, from Chuck,_ it proclaims. And then:_ Merry Christmas._ Reaching instinctively toward the bag, Sarah expects her hand to go straight through the present. She expects her fingers to touch still air, to come up empty like so many other times when she's attempted to touch something in this shadowy world. But as the Ghost's light flickers upon the package, as the green glow illuminates the bag, the spy's hand clenches around its confines and she finds herself plucking it from the floor.

Her eyes widening in surprise, her breath catching in her throat, Sarah places a trembling hand into the wrapping and extracts an elegant silver frame. And within that frame, enclosed behind the delicate plate of glass, rests a picture of Chuck and Sarah. A picture taken at Ellie's wedding, at which she and Chuck had shared a special dance. A special dance during which the world had slipped away, their worries lay forgotten, and they had relished being in each other's arms, the simple joy of being together eclipsing everything else. And nestled within the frame, gazing up at her from its gleaming silver confines, is a note: "This is how I remember us," it reads, also in Chuck's messy scrawl. "This is what I miss. Please come to Christmas, Sarah."

"How interesting," the Ghost says, breaking into Sarah's thoughts, "That we tend to push away those that we most desire. Those that we most need."

"You don't understand," Sarah replies weakly, fingering the note as her eyes gleam with unshed tears. "It's not that easy."

"Hmm," the Ghost murmurs, sipping thoughtfully from her cup of wine. "It seems to me that you've forgotten what's supposed to be easy, and what should be difficult. Maybe now would be a good time to visit someone else who has experienced loss."

"What do you mean?" Sarah asks, furrowing her brow.

"You'll see," the Ghost promises. And then she links her arm through Sarah's and pushes off from the ground, taking them once more through the dissolving ceiling of the hotel room and up into the starry night sky. And as Sarah finds herself whizzing once more through the city of Burbank, as her bright blue eyes scan the familiar skyline and the cool wind blows through her long blonde hair, the picture frame falls from her grasp and tumbles back to earth, Sarah's heart dropping right along with it.

Landing in a world of whistling wind and creaky gates, with tufts of dirty grass poking between her toes and murky shadows chasing across her face, Sarah blinks and turns in a slow circle, her throat tightening when she realizes where she's found herself now. When she takes in the rows of crumbling tombstones, when she registers the cracking mausoleums, when she sees the dark church standing atop a desolate hill. And as her eyes rake across the landscape, as goose bumps spread along her forearms and her breathing turns slightly ragged, she licks her lips and turns to the Ghost with confusion clear within her eyes.

"Why are we here?" she asks, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "What is there to see in a cemetery? Did something . . . Does something happen to Chuck? Is he okay?"

"Chuck is fine," the Ghost replies. "Lonely and broken hearted, but fine. We're here for another purpose."

"But what purpose could there be?" Sarah demands, kneading her arms with stiff fingers. "What reason could we have to be standing in a vacant cemetery on Christmas Day?"

Smiling softly, the Ghost places a gentle hand on Sarah's shoulder and slowly turns her toward a nearby grave. And when the spy notices that the cemetery isn't quite so vacant after all, when her gaze falls upon a lone man kneeling on the gravesite, when she hears his somber, broken voice, her chest clenches and her lips part. And as she steps instinctively toward the grave, she strains her ears to hear what he has to say.

"I brought you roses, baby," he says, laying a bouquet beside the tombstone. "Your favorite. But then, you never were too picky. Maybe that's why you chose me," he says, laughing hollowly as a despondent smirk plays along the corner of his lips.

"That's my father," Sarah says softly, staring at the man as if in a trance.

"And if I'm not mistaken," the Ghost says, stepping to Sarah's side, "That grave belongs to your mother. To the love of his life."

Nodding mutely, Sarah swallows gently as she continues to listen to her father speak. As she continues to hear him talk to the mother, to the wife, to the woman who had left them both behind.

"Do you remember the first time we met, darling?" he asks, a shadow of pain peeking out from behind the shield guarding his navy blue eyes. "Do you remember that day in the university courtyard? When I tried to convince you that I was a foreign prince?" Again, a hollow laugh sounds from his mouth, even as his eyes remain desolate and dark. "My arms still hurt from that hold you put on me," he reveals, massaging his wrists as his lips twist into a painful smile. "Because you saw right through me that day. You saw right through the con, right through the bravado. But then," he continues, his eyes taking on a far off look, "You always could see right through me. You always knew me better than anyone. You always just knew _me_."

"Oh, Dad," Sarah whispers, blinking away the prickling sensation forming at the back of her eyes.

"I miss you so much, Angie," her father murmurs, leaning his head against her tombstone. "I miss you every day." Fingering her name upon the cold gray slab, his shoulders begin to shake. "I would do anything for just one more day, just one more moment with you, baby. I would give up the con, I would give up the money, I would give up everything that I've worked for just to have one more memory with you."

In that moment, as she watches her father stifle a sob, as she listens to him beg for just one more chance, as she gulps down the lump emerging deep within her throat, a light dawns within Sarah's mind and she suddenly knows. She suddenly understands. She's spent three years pushing Chuck out of her life, three years refusing to let go, three years refusing to give in. But as she stands here now, listening to her father commiserate the loss of her mother, watching him plead for just one more moment, just one more memory, seeing him struggle with the loss he can never take back, she can deny the truth no longer. She's in love with Chuck Bartowski. She's so in love with him that it hurts. And even though he knows who she is, and despite the fact that he's discovered the horrible truth about her past, he loves her, too. He's never stopped loving her. He's never stopped caring about her. He's never stopped looking at her in the same way that her father always looked at her mother. With the same expression that she's longed to see for the past twenty years.

So when her father's eyes finally start to gleam, when he bites his lower lip and forces away the tears, it's Chuck's face that she sees. And when he rests his arms upon the cool gray slab, when he runs his finger along the etching which depicts her mother's name, it's Chuck's voice that she hears. Clear and distinct. Poignant and real. Asking her to come to Christmas. Telling Ellie that he loves her. Begging her to open the door.

Turning toward the Ghost, Sarah opens her mouth to tell her what she's learned. Opens her mouth to tell her what she knows, what she understands, what she knows to be true. But when her eyes rake the Ghost's face, when they settle upon the Ghost's limp frame, they suddenly widen and she has to bite back a gasp. Right before her eyes, almost as if it's happening in slow motion, the Ghost's hair is turning gray, her face is creasing with wrinkles, her body is bending with age. "What's happening to you?" she demands, all the more horrified because the Ghost looks so much like Ellie.

"I'm afraid that my time is almost up on this planet," the Ghost confesses sadly, slumping over even as she continues to gray. "You see, I only get one night. I only get one Christmas to bring joy and pleasure to the lives of those around me. Much like your own life, Sarah Walker, I only get one chance."

Even as her stomach tightens and goose bumps break out onto her arms, Sarah continues to watch the specter in horror. She continues to gaze at her in utter consternation. The woman is shriveling up right before her eyes, every happy laugh, every joyous step diminishing as she grows old. Stepping forward to rest a hand upon the Ghost's shoulder, to attempt to offer some help, she almost misses the vision beneath the Ghost's robe. She almost misses the sight protruding from underneath her gown. But just before she reaches the specter, just before she places her fingers upon her visage, she stops in her tracks, shivering involuntarily.

"What's that underneath your robe?" she implores, staring in dismay at the claws digging into the hallowed ground.

"They appear to be claws," the Ghost replies woodenly. And then the wind blows open the robe, the red velvet framing her glistening green dress. And when it billows around her feet, when the owners of the claws gape out from behind the velvety slip, Sarah shudders as she takes in the horrible sight.

There before her, their bodies hunched in terrible agony, their features twisted in horrified pain, are two children. Two ugly, beastly children, one male and one female, each sneering at Sarah, each rising from the ground to advance closer to her tense frame, each with arms outstretched and sharp claws glinting in the shadowy moonlight.

"These are man's creatures," the Ghost replies weakly, her body crouched as old age continues to steal her life. "The boy is fear, the girl is loneliness. Look upon them, Sarah Walker. Look upon them and know. If you don't change your life, if you don't heed the warnings you hear on this very night, then these will be your lot. These creatures will haunt you until the day that you die."

And as the children continue to advance toward her, as their claws protrude ever closer to her pale face, Sarah's breathing grows ragged, icy prickles traverse her veins, and her fingers ache for the knife she left behind. The futile knife which would give her no chance, which would give her no hope, but which would be a welcome sight during this frightening moment in time. During this frightening moment in time, when all the images, when all the memories, when all the shadows seem to hover alarmingly close, their lessons echoing through her mind and closing in upon her senses. During this frightening moment in time, when she finally realizes that she cannot hide, she cannot flee. She cannot run from her choices, from her past. There is no recourse, there is no way to protect herself from the shadows, from the images facing her now. From the reality which makes up her life.

Taking a deep breath, she braces herself for the impact. She braces herself to face the children head on. And then, just before they're upon her entirely, just before she has to look into the relentless face of fear, just before she's touched by the clammy hands of loneliness, the specters vanish and the Ghost crumples onto the ground, gasping her dying breath as her face shrivels into nothingness and her body seeps into the moistened dirt. A cry of stunned relief emanates from deep within Sarah's throat, piercing the still night air, reverberating upon her chilly ears, and she quickly squeezes her eyes shut, attempting to block out the image burned within her mind. Attempting to block out the memory of the shriveled children. Attempting to forget everything which has just occurred.

But when the unseen clock begins to chime the third hour, when the chimes mingle with Sarah's panic and the fear echoes through her chest, her eyes pop open. And in that moment, in that startling space of time, she notices something which causes her breath to hitch and her blood to freeze. Wafting toward her across the damp cemetery grass is a faceless phantom, a nameless being, its entire body shrouded in black and its concealed arms reaching in her direction.


	4. Stave Four

**A/N: **Wow. Writing this chapter at the best of times would have been difficult. But for the past few days, I've struggled with a head cold/stomach flu/102-degree temperature, thus causing this particular chapter to become akin to a fever dream. And while I'm proud of the finished result, I can only hope that it reads as well on the page as it does in my own mind. With that said, thank you to everyone who left me reviews for the last part. You all know how much I value your comments and thoughts. Because I'm not feeling well, however, I'm going to have to hope you'll forgive me for bypassing review replies. Suffice it to say that I appreciate each and every one of you, readers and/or reviewers alike. I hope you continue to enjoy the finished result!

**Stave Four: The Last of the Spirits**

The air grows cold and Sarah's breath begins to emerge in puffy white wisps as the phantom glides along the ground, coming ever nearer, moving ever closer with each passing second. Its black cloak billows around its shapeless form, its hooded face completely concealed, its pale hands barely visible beneath the dark shroud. Wrapping her arms tightly around her slender frame, she attempts to block out the chill. She attempts to rub away the goose bumps breaking out onto her arms, the icy tendrils skirting across her skin. But as the Ghost approaches, as a cloudy mist surges up from the ground and masks the graves which are all too near, her heart begins hammering relentlessly in her chest.

"I know who you are!" she calls, her fingernails biting into the pale skin of her arms. "I know what you want."

But the Ghost says nothing. The Ghost makes no noise at all. Instead, it continues to waft soundlessly along the ground, its cloak slithering through the mist as it slowly draws closer to Sarah's side.

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Sarah stands up straight, her eyes fixated on the mysterious phantom. Her entire body ready for the encounter, her entire being prepared for the lessons she knows that it will bring. Only this time, she doesn't rely on a knife. This time, she doesn't even reach for a weapon. She has nothing to grab, she has nothing to depend upon. The only thing she has, the only thing she needs is her own wisdom, her own heart, her own strength.

"You're the Ghost of Christmas Future," Sarah states as the phantom slips along the concealed graves and finally comes to a stop by her side. "The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" she prods when it says nothing in response. And when it still fails to answer, when it still says nothing, she simply takes a deep breath and raises her chin in resolve. "I'm ready for you," she states firmly, even as she shivers when the cloak blows against her chill skin. "I'm ready for what it is you have to teach me. For the things I know I will see." _Even if it's not what I want to see. Even if it's not what I want to know. Even if it's what I fear the most._

As if on cue, Chuck's innocent, charming grin flares within her mind, his cinnamon brown eyes flicker through her thoughts, and a rush of fearful hope resounds within her chest, mingling with the shadows cascading through her mind and intensifying the longing coursing through her gut. The longing to see what has happened. The longing to see what has developed in these silent, nameless years, to discover whether her desire to change, to fix her past and live her present has altered the course of her life.

And when the phantom simply continues to gaze at her from the depths of its jet black robe, causing her to suppress a shudder when she considers the ghostly eyes currently fixated upon her face, she holds onto the sliver of hope and takes a step closer to its side. "Show me the way," she requests, her expression strong and determined.

The phantom inclines its dark hood as if nodding its shapeless head, and she takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the journey. Preparing herself for what she might find. Preparing herself for the future truth. And when it waves a shrouded, hidden arm, moving its pale hand through the smoky mist and causing the graveyard to dissolve, the scene to shift, the world to drop away, she stands firmly by its side, waiting to see what she will be shown.

Almost immediately, a dizzying array of images flashes before her eyes, an overwhelming plethora of sights and of sounds, each blurry and indistinct, each lasting only a few seconds before being eclipsed by utter darkness, each offering snatches of information which gradually lead to her confusion, which gradually conceal her hope and intensify her fear. "What?" Steve Bartowski cries, leaning in shock upon the palm of his hand as he holds a phone tightly to his ear. "When? God, Ellie, is there anything I can do?" . . . "I always said that getting dead was an occupational hazard," Carina states matter-of-factly, even as a shimmer of sorrow pierces her sparkling blue eyes. "Should have been more careful." . . . "Shame things couldn't have been different," says a much older Roan Montgomery, staring morosely at a newspaper as a gorgeous young woman slinks off to a nearby shower. "I never thought love belonged in this kind of work."

"What are they all talking about?" Sarah demands breathlessly, whirling toward the Ghost as she attempts to smooth away the chaos and make sense of the pandemonium. "What's happened?"

But the Ghost does not speak, the Ghost does not even move, and the scene shifts again, more blurry images of familiar faces passing before her eyes, more indistinct conversations rushing by her ears and racing through her thoughts. "He always had it all, Jeff," Lester states as he dodges last minute holiday shoppers by hiding underneath a low shelf. "The girl, the job, the computer smarts." . . . "We always lose the best," a fellow agent shakes his head, running a wary hand through his well-kempt hair. "Such a shame." . . . "That's what happens when you disobey the cardinal rule," says an old CIA trainer, "Never fall in love."

Sarah's chest tightens, her breathing turns shallow, her muscles knot as the disturbing statements reverberate through her mind and pierce her worn façade, diminishing her hope, strengthening her fear. And when a sea of darkness eclipses her sight between each new scene, she can't help but allow her mind to drift to the man she still hasn't seen, to the man whose future is still uncertain, to the man whose life is linked so intimately with her own. "Where's Chuck?" she finds herself asking, even when she knows the Spirit probably won't answer. "What's happened to him?" But she's greeted by silence, punctuated only by more snatches of conversation, by more puzzling pieces of illumination into this dark, murky future. And still, she holds onto a sliver of hope, she holds onto a shred of faith, strengthened by the longing still coursing through her chest.

So when she finds herself back on solid ground, when her bare feet land upon a fuzzy carpet cluttered with piles of brightly wrapped presents and miscellaneous Christmas ornaments, and her bright blue eyes scan a small living room within a tiny three-bedroom house and the dazzling Christmas tree standing at the center of the scene, her heart skips a beat at the familial atmosphere which greets her. At the loving home which unfolds before her eyes. Family pictures adorn the walls, each depicting a boy and a girl with hair and eyes nearly the same color as Chuck's, each with wide grins and happy faces. And everywhere she sees, everywhere she looks, are signs of family, from the toys littering the room to the presents stacked underneath the tree to the Christmas stockings hanging from the mantelpiece. The scene is so similar to the one she's starting to dream of having, to the one she's beginning to realize she wants for herself, that she can't stop the hopeful smile from spreading across her face, even as the tension remains taut within her chest.

"Where are we?" she asks, glancing at the Ghost with an optimistic gleam in her eye. "Where is this place?" But as usual, the Spirit remains silent, remains still, only raising a pale, pointy finger when footsteps begin to sound from nearby. Her forehead creases as she follows the direction in which it points, her heart skipping a beat when she hears the drone of familiar voices.

"The kids won't be up for a few more minutes, Morgan," an older Anna Wu murmurs coyly, threading her fingers through her husband's graying hair. "And I just put on my naughty Santa panties. We can . . ." she lowers her voice so that Sarah can't discern the words, but Morgan's answering blush as Anna's hand falls below his waist tells her all she needs to know.

Averting her gaze, Sarah's heart sinks when she realizes that this isn't the home she had hoped it would be. This isn't the family she'd thought it might hold. And at this moment in time, she still has no idea what's happened to Chuck. Nevertheless, she continues to listen, hoping for some clue of the computer nerd's whereabouts.

"I'm sorry, honey," Morgan apologizes, disentangling himself from Anna's passionate embrace. "I'm just not in the mood for naughty Santa today."

Anna's mouth curls downward in a disappointed frown even as she places a comforting hand upon Morgan's shoulder. "There's nothing you could have done, Morgan," she says sympathetically. "He knew that."

"I know," Morgan replies, hanging his head dejectedly. "It's just that . . . Chuck's always been such a good guy, ya know? He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to have things end like this."

"I still can't believe that it's over," Anna agrees, her face falling.

"Tell me about it," Morgan states, kicking at an invisible piece of fuzz laying on his shaggy blue carpet. "It just . . . It just, sucks, you know?" he explodes. "It sucks how things ended up. It sucks that he'll never be my best friend again. It sucks that ever since Sarah –"

Her throat tightens with dread as her name sounds upon her ears, mingled with the ominous statements about Chuck. Taking several inadvertent steps closer to the couple, her lips part as she strains to hear more. As she silently urges them to elaborate, to clarify, to let her know what it is that's happened to Chuck. What it is that she's done. But before Morgan can say anything else, before he can expand upon his statement, two children dash into the room, excitement shining upon their faces as they realize that their stockings are full and presents are stacked under the tree.

"Daddy Daddy Daddy!" the little girl cries, throwing herself into her father's arms. "Santa came, Santa came!"

"Wow, look at that," Morgan replies, hugging his daughter with a half-hearted grin. "And here I told him to put you on the naughty list this year."

"Don't be silly, Daddy," the little girl giggles. "I've been good. Jason's the one that's been naughty," she says, casting a mischievous glance toward her older brother.

"Well, I'll just have to make sure that he's put coal in both your stockings, then," Morgan laughs as Jason shoots his sister an admonishing look.

Turning away, Sarah glances at the Spirit. "Please," she says, unable to watch anymore. Unable to look at a family so similar to the one she dreams of having herself, so similar to the one she dreams of having with Chuck, especially when the ominous statements are all too clear within her mind. "I need to know. Is Chuck okay? Did something happen to him? Did he get hurt? Did he . . .?" But she finds she cannot finish the sentence. She finds she cannot even form the words upon her lips. Instead, she swallows hard and shakes her head, attempting to clear her mind of the doubt. Attempting to clear her head of the panic clouding her thoughts, concealing her senses, darkening her world. "Take me somewhere else," she pleads, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Take me to another scene. I need to know more."

The black hood nods again. And a moment later, the shrouded, shapeless arm waves through the festive air, causing Morgan's house to dissolve into nothingness, Morgan's family to disappear, and the entire scene to shift. Before she knows what's happening, before she's even adjusted to the change, Sarah finds herself swimming through a sea of nothingness, the darkness closing in around her, obscuring her vision and dimming her sight. The only thing she knows, the only thing of which she is certain, is that the being remains by her side, its body cloaked by the black robe, its frame solid and unmoving, its countenance primal and mysterious. But just as she feels the world begin to close in around her, just as the clammy fingers of panic begin to traverse her chill skin, the darkness fades and she finds herself standing in the middle of a sunny kitchen, the smell of a Christmas breakfast wafting through the room and teasing her nose.

Stumbling slightly as they come to an abrupt stop, Sarah places a hand on a nearby counter as she gazes at the room in which she's found herself, at the scene which spans before her eyes. A brunette stands at the stove, a phone clutched between shoulder and ear as she stirs one of a trio of pots bubbling on the shiny white surface. "Thanks, Dad," she says, and Sarah's breath hitches when she recognizes Ellie Woodcomb's distraught voice. "I'll let you know if there's anything you can do."

"What's wrong with Ellie?" Sarah asks, glancing at the Ghost. Even as she says the words, even as they leave her lips, she doesn't expect clarification. She doesn't even expect a response. It's becoming clear that whatever world she's found herself in, whatever disturbing future she's experiencing, she'll get no help from her ghostly guide. There will be no wise answer of illumination to chase away the shadows currently drifting into her life.

So when Devon enters the room a moment later and Ellie hangs up the phone, placing her head into her hands, Sarah simply takes a deep breath and steps further into the kitchen, closer to the shadows depicting Chuck's family. Closer to the shadows depicting her future life. "Is everything okay, babe?" Devon asks, his brow creased in concern as he rests a comforting hand upon his wife's shoulder.

"I'm just worried about Chuck," Ellie states, running a shaky hand through her hair. "I can't believe that this has happened. I can't believe how everything has turned out."

And with those words, with that statement, a burst of relief resounds through Sarah's chest. Because if Ellie's worried about Chuck, if Ellie's still talking about him as if he's still here, as if he's not hurt, as if he's not _gone_, then maybe he's okay after all. Maybe she's misunderstood everything that's been said, maybe she's mistaken everything that's been spoken. Maybe everything will turn out all right, and she hasn't failed him after all.

"I really hate her," Ellie bites, breaking into Sarah's thoughts as she whirls around to fix Devon with bitter hazel eyes. "I just can't believe that she did this to him. I can't believe that after all those times he gave her a second chance, all those times that he put his heart on the line, that she would do this to him. That she would hurt him like this."

"Hey," Devon says gently, wrapping his arms around Ellie's lower back and gazing intently into her eyes. "We really can't get mad at her. I mean, after all –"

"I don't care," Ellie snaps, and then breathes in deeply when she realizes just how loud her voice is becoming. Closing her eyes as if to compose herself, she leans her forehead against Devon's and grits her teeth. "If Sarah had only stayed, if she had only loved him the way he loved her, then none of this would have happened. She wouldn't be . . . He wouldn't have . . . Things would be _different_," she finishes with conviction, her eyes popping open as she bites her lower lip.

"But it _did_ happen, honey," Devon replies, caressing Ellie's cheek with his thumb. "She did leave. And Chuck never got over her loss."

"I know," Ellie replies, sighing heavily. "And I think that's why I hate her so much. Devon, we tried so hard to make her a part of this family. We tried so hard to let her know how much we cared. And even though Chuck tried to move on, even though he tried to find happiness, he never got over her. I don't understand how she could just turn away from all of that and leave him. How she could open him up to all of this pain."

"I don't know, Ell," Devon replies, brushing a kiss against his wife's lips. "I guess we'll never know."

The warmth of Sarah's relief suddenly turns to ice as she stares in stunned dismay at the situation unfolding before her. At the knowledge which is now slowly permeating into her mind, which is now slowly trickling into her senses. Somehow, even after everything she's learned, even after everything she's experienced, even after discovering just how much she loves Chuck, just how much she needs him, just how much she wants everything to change, she's left him. She's abandoned him, she's abandoned his family. She's abandoned everything she so desperately wants, everything she so desperately needs. And in the process, she's caused him some sort of pain. Some sort of pain so deep that it's made Ellie hate her, even after all the times she's welcomed her into her home. Even after all the times she's welcomed her into her heart. Even after all the chances that she's given her.

Before she can stop herself, before she can remind herself that the shadows of the future cannot hear, she crosses the kitchen to Ellie's side. "Ellie, please," she murmurs beseechingly. "I promise this isn't going to happen. I promise I'm not going to leave."

And even though the other woman fails to notice her, and perhaps because she continues to talk about the pain that Chuck's now experiencing, Sarah continues undeterred. "I love him, too," she says softly, only this time she's talking to herself. Because as much as she wants Ellie to believe her, as much as she wants to diminish the hatred within the other woman's eyes, she's never opened up easily to the doctor before. And really, the words she speaks next are more for her own benefit than anyone else's. "I love him just as much as he loves me," she says, the careful mask wavering upon her face. "I was just afraid."

But even as she says it, even as she speaks the words, she can't help the twinge of doubt which reverberates through her mind, nor can she help the trickle of hesitancy which echoes through her thoughts. Because if she's really left Chuck, if she's really caused him all this pain, then how can he continue to love her? How can he continue to care?

"I don't understand," she says, turning to the Spirit. "I don't understand what's happening. Where's Chuck? What did I do to him?" And when the Ghost remains quiet, when the Ghost still refuses to speak, she strides across the room, grasps hold of its cloak and shakes it, even as her hand tingles with chill from the touch of the shroud. "_Talk _to me!" she cries. "Tell me what's going on!"

In response, the phantom only turns its hood to gaze unseeingly at Sarah, to fix her in the sights of its faceless form. And before Sarah can say anything else, before she can utter another word, the world is shifting again, Ellie's kitchen is vanishing from sight, and she finds herself plunged back into the world of dizzying darkness, the jubilant, joyous celebrations eclipsed by conversations which Sarah does not want to hear. Conversations which Sarah wishes she didn't even have to acknowledge. "The funeral's today," comes the morose voice of an old partner. "Real shame" . . . ". . . damn fine agent," Cole Barker says into a phone, whilst sipping a cup of tea. "Terrible tragedy." . . . "I guess love isn't everything," Jill Roberts states with a slight smirk, throwing a crumpled newspaper into a trashcan.

By the time Sarah's bare feet connect with the marble floor, by the time she finds herself standing in a large, brightly lit room, her throat has tightened and her eyes have narrowed with fear. Taking a step into the room, glancing at her surroundings, she attempts to equate everything she's heard with her future self, to equate everything she'd learned with this obscure life. Something's happened to Chuck. Something that she's caused. And everyone she knows, everyone she's ever met is talking about a terrible tragedy, an untimely death, a tragic funeral. Squeezing her eyes shut to block out the shadows, to block out the truths, she leans against the wall and takes several deep breaths, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart. Trying to slow her ragged, shallow breathing. And when the door to the room swings open, when two individuals wearing dress uniforms enter the enclosed space, it takes her a moment to come back to the present couched within the future.

"Shame about what happened, General," comes the nasally voice of an enlisted Marine Corps member. "I always heard she was one of the best."

Blinking, Sarah realizes with a start that she's staring at a much older, much more wrinkled General Beckman, her hair still pulled back tightly into a bun yet almost entirely gray with age. And for a moment, the same sense of relief ricochets through her chest, the same sense of hope races through her veins. Because if she's standing in the chambers of the NSA, then maybe she still has something in her life. Maybe she's still fighting alongside Chuck, maybe everything that she fears has happened really hasn't come to pass after all. Maybe there's still some hope. But then she remembers the pieces of conversation, and she thinks about the confrontations between Morgan and Anna, and Ellie and Awesome, and she hears what Beckman has to say, and her muscles tighten once more.

"She _was_ one of the best," the General corrects, squinting at the man through her glasses. "She lost that designation long ago."

"I don't understand," the man shakes his head. "Wasn't she instrumental in taking down the Ring? In bringing about the change that linked the CIA with the NSA, forming our agencies into one organization?"

"She was a part of that, yes," Beckman states warily, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against an oak desk. "But I wouldn't say she was instrumental. In fact, I'd say she was more of a liability."

"What do you mean?" the man prods, his forehead crinkling as Sarah's stomach sinks at her words.

"She broke our number one rule," the General clarifies, pursing her lips in disdain. "She fell in love."

"Wow," the man replies, arching a bushy eyebrow.

Nodding, Beckman continues. "And not only that," she states roughly, her bony fingers clenching around the edge of the desk, "She wasn't able to handle it. She never was very good with her feelings, with her emotions. She allowed them to fester until she couldn't think straight. Until she became a liability that almost cost us our fight against the Ring."

"You told me that I couldn't have any," Sarah returns, glaring at the General. "You told me that my _emotions_ were a liability." _That they were a nuisance, a burden. That they were to be destroyed and abolished. That having emotions was akin to being a risk to the Agency._

As if on cue, the man seems to answer her thoughts. "Would you have rather she embraced them?" he asks in confusion, a thin crease appearing between his eyes.

"Of course not," Beckman snaps. "I would have rather she didn't have them at all. But because she had them, it would have been a lot better if she'd actually faced them and tried to eradicate them instead of burying them so deeply that she became a burden." For some reason, the admission only irks Sarah further, causing her to grit her teeth in anger. And when Beckman leans forward with her arms still clutched tightly around her wrinkled frame and lowers her voice, she has to unclench her jaw and force herself to listen. "I put in a kill order for her once," the General murmurs conspiratorially. "Just after we eliminated the Ring. When I first learned that we'd be combining forces with the CIA."

"What happened?" the man queries, his eyes widening while Sarah's skin turns cold, her world crashing around her feet.

"I was overridden," Beckman replies bitterly, glancing at the picture hanging over her desk. Sarah's astonished, angry gaze follows her line of sight, and her jaw drops when she realizes where Beckman's indicating. When she sees the man depicted within the ornate, golden frame. When she realizes that John Casey, her colleague, her partner, the man she'd once called a burnout, becomes the director of the new CIA/NSA. "But now that she's gone," Beckman breaks into her thoughts again, extracting a thin silver chain from her pocket, "I wonder how much I can get for this on e-Bay?"

A sharp inhalation of breath escapes Sarah's lips as her eyes widen in pain, in shock, in undiluted fury. "You bitch," she exclaims, lurching away from her resting place against the wall. Because dangling from Beckman's bony fingers, held greedily in her hand is the charm bracelet that Chuck gave her last Christmas. The charm bracelet that he'd nervously asked for, the charm bracelet that belonged to his mother, the charm bracelet that signified everything he had hoped they'd be, everything he had hoped they'd become.

Stalking across the room, Sarah attempts to grab the bracelet from the General's hand. Attempts to wrench it from her grasp. But her fingers slip through the silver chain, flow through the dangling charms, and come up barren and empty. "Damn it!" she cries, clenching her fists. "I didn't know. I didn't understand." _I didn't realize what I was doing, what I was giving up. I didn't realize what I was giving it up for._ Because as Beckman laughs a sharp laugh, as she goes into details about how Sarah became a burnout, how she became a burden, how she became a liability, the only thing she can think about is Chuck. The only thing she can reflect upon is his innocent smile, his radiant eyes, the expression that lights up his face every time she walks into a room. The same expression that lit up her father's face every time he saw her mother. The same expression she's longed to see for over twenty years.

Whirling around, she marches toward the Ghost, a determined glint within her eyes. "You've shown me the future," she states, her face inches from its faceless hood. "You've shown me what happens if I don't change. But I still don't understand. I still don't know what really happens." Taking a deep breath, she stands up straight and fixes her jaw. "Show me more. Show me what they're all talking about. Show me what happens to me. Show me what happens to Chuck."

Watching with creased brow, Sarah's heart skips a beat when the Spirit raises its shapeless arm and points a pale, steady finger down the hall, all the while staring at her from the depths of its black shroud. Swallowing uneasily, Sarah's head swivels in the direction of its finger, and she finds herself staring down a long, shadowy corridor. Her brows arch as she feels her body tensing in trepidation. But then she shakes her head and fixes her jaw, the memory of Chuck's bracelet dangling from the General's bony fingers all too clear for her to do anything but get the answers she so desperately needs to uncover.

Following the Spirit's directions, she begins walking down the hall, even as her stomach knots in anticipation of what she might find. Harried agents walk quickly through the corridor, tense superiors talk in tight knit clusters, and an unspoken air of urgency pervades the otherwise professional chambers. Biting her lower lip, Sarah tries to suppress the sense of panic becoming ever more prevalent within her gut, becoming ever more solidified within her core. But as she continues to walk down the hallway, as she continues to hear snatches of conversation, as she continues to listen to people discussing death and funerals and misplaced love, she can't help the chilly tendrils of fear which skirt through her veins. And when she finally comes to a stop outside the agency morgue, her blood turns to ice and her breath catches in her throat.

"What is this?" she demands, turning to the phantom with narrowed eyes. "What are you trying to say?"

But the Spirit remains speechless, instead gazing through the dingy window of the morgue. And as Sarah watches with bated breath, it flicks its lifeless finger and the door blasts open with a deafening _bang_, exposing a body laying on a metal tray, covered by a thin white sheet. Gliding past Sarah's tense form, it moves toward the corpse before finally turning to gaze at her from its sightless hood.

"No," she replies, shaking her head violently as images of Bryce's unseeing eyes flicker through her head. As memories of her mother's still, silent body waver through her thoughts. As the possibility of Chuck's lifeless body flashes through her mind. "No, I don't want to see. I don't want to know."

But still, the Spirit continues to gaze at her, continues to look at her with its undead eyes, with its lifeless orbs. And before she can stop herself, she's suddenly taking a hesitant step into the room, followed by another, followed by a third, until she's finally standing by the nameless body. Swallowing involuntarily, she watches as the Spirit flicks its wrist, and the sheet begins to move back one slow, agonizing inch at a time. Her throat turns dry, her heartbeat quickens, her fingers curl into tight fists until her nails bite into the skin of her palms. But just before the sheet is lowered, just before the face of the dead body is revealed, she jumps back and squeezes her eyes shut. "I said I don't want to know," she cries, attempting to push Chuck's face from her mind. Attempting to push his lifeless eyes from her thoughts. Attempting to push aside another image, another person, this one with limp blonde hair, this one with sightless blue eyes, this one who wasn't ready give in, who wasn't ready to fight, who didn't know what she wanted until it was too late.

She whirls toward the door, determined to leave the room. Determined to flee. Determined to get as far away from this bleak, desolate future as she possibly can. But just as she reaches the threshold to the room, just as her tense fist rakes across the doorframe and her bare feet brush against the marble tile outside the door, a familiar figure steps into her path, causing her to stop in her tracks. "Casey," she murmurs, staring at him as if in a trance. Gone is the Buy More green, gone is the heavy scowl, gone is the noncommittal grunt. In its place stands a man wearing a dress uniform, with a soft smile upon his face and a peaceful lilt to his words. "Is that you?" she wonders, even as he begins to speak.

"Ilsa's making dinner," he says, pausing just outside the morgue. "Hopefully we won't have to call the fire department this time."

A hearty chuckle escapes the lips of the blonde man standing next to him, his peaked cap falling into his eyes. "I couldn't walk into your kitchen for weeks," he reminisces, smiling as he pushes it back into place. "Ilsa's a great aunt, but I'd hire a chef if I were you, Uncle Casey."

"It's General Casey, Private," Casey barks, and Sarah's surprised to notice the teasing twinkle reflected within his deep blue eyes. "And I tried that last year, but I'd prefer not to sleep on the couch this time around."

Shaking his head with a grin, Casey's nephew, the same boy Sarah had seen stealing peppermints that very night, looks into the morgue. "So what's this all about, anyway?" he asks.

"Sad case," Casey states, folding his arms over his chest. "She used to be one of the best, but then she broke the cardinal rule."

"Is this the one that fell in love with her asset?" the young man queries, causing Sarah's chest to twist as his own features turn serious when he quirks a thumb in the corpse's direction.

Nodding briskly, Casey glances at the white sheets before turning quickly away. "I'll tell you something that I never told anyone," he says softly, gazing at the wall behind his nephew's head. "I used to give her hell for that. I repeatedly reminded her that the job came first. But in the end, I discovered that I was wrong."

"Is that why you married Aunt Ilsa?" the young man asks, the corners of his lips turning downward in reflection. "Why you decided to stop taking missions and took the job as Director of the Agency?"

"It was," Casey agrees, a shadow of regret flickering within his eyes. But before he can allow himself to reminisce for too long, before he can really allow himself to show too much emotion, he clears his throat and stands up straighter. "The reason I called you here," he says curtly, "is because she died alone. She has no surviving relatives. And I want you to be present when her casket is carried into the graveyard."

"Of course, Unc – General Casey," the young man states, nodding quickly as his hat bobs in place upon his blonde head.

"Good," Casey replies, the same shadow of regret present as he gazes into his nephew's eyes. "After everything she gave up for this Agency, she deserves a decent funeral."

"Oh, Casey," Sarah murmurs, as a light gradually begins to dawn upon her face and a flicker of horrified understanding gradually builds within her mind. Because as she listens to her partner talk about family and loved ones and Christmas dinners, as she hears him describe the death of a friendless, loveless individual, as she remembers Beckman's words and Ellie's diatribes and Morgan's lamentations and the dozens of conversations which passed through the dark, unknown world, she starts to realize that somehow everyone else has managed to procure the life she's always wanted. Somehow, everyone else is living the life she's always dreamed. Even Casey, with his penchant for rules and his love for the job, has managed to find himself a happy home, a loving wife, a real family. And in the process, she's been left behind. She's been left lying in a dingy, murky morgue, covered by a sheet, having died alone. Having died without survivors, having died without friends, having died without love. Having died without _Chuck_.

Blinking back tears, she turns to the Ghost, the painful desperation clear within her eyes. "Okay," she says, clearing her throat when her words emerge wobbly, broken. "Okay, I get it. I understand. I end up dying, alone and friendless. But, please," she says, clasping its shroud even as she shivers when a chill permeates her hand and courses through her wrist, "Tell me what happened to Chuck. Tell me that he's happy. Tell me that he has a good life."

Once more, the Spirit inclines its faceless hood, even as its cloak remains clasped within Sarah's tight fist. Once more, the world slips away from under her feet, knocking the breath out of her lungs even as she struggles to regain some semblance of control. Once more, she finds herself whirling through a sea of darkness, a sea of nothingness, a sea of obscurity even as she holds onto the hope that Chuck's managed to find a good life. That Chuck's managed to etch out a happy existence, even after everything that she's done. Even after all of the pain she's caused. And once more, she finds herself standing in a new place, in a new scene, desperately trying to figure out where she's found herself now.

White mist wafts along the damp, brittle ground, swirling around her ankles and cloaking everything in sight. Wrapping her arms tightly around her slender frame, Sarah shivers in the fog, stumbling through the dim, desolate air as she glances at her surroundings. Row upon row of tombstones can be seen through the vapor, row upon row of cracking marble slabs. Her heart begins to beat a discordant, uncomfortable rhythm as she scans the names upon the graves, as she reads the information upon the tombs, as she tries to find her own within the mix. But as the Ghost drifts silently by her side, its shroud billowing in the wind which is now picking up speed, just one grave catches her eye. Just one grave causes her heart to stop its frantic beat, just one name causes it to freeze icy cold within her chest.

"No," she murmurs as she drops to her knees, staring at the forsaken grave. Staring at the tombstone which rests beside her mother's own. Staring at the tombstone which bears her father's name. "Oh, Dad," she breathes, running her finger along the marble slab. "Why did it have to turn out this way? Why did you have to shut out the world?" Swallowing the lump rising into her throat, she blinks as another question sounds within her thoughts. As another inquiry reverberates within her mind. "Why did _I_ have to shut out the world?" she whispers, her hand dropping back to her side as Chuck's loving face flickers through her thoughts. _Why didn't I realize what I was doing? Why didn't I understand what was going to happen? What all of this was going to become?_

She doesn't know how long she kneels at the grave. She doesn't know how long she stares at her father's name, the lettering already crumbling with time, the tombstone already cracking with age. It's only when she hears the beat of a distant drum and the indistinct murmur of remote voices that she comes to her feet and turns around, wiping the dirt from her knees and furrowing her brow. And when she notices the hill in the horizon, when she sees the figures embarking down its path, when she sees the white casket held above their heads, goose bumps break out onto her arms and she waits breathlessly for what she knows will come.

The soldiers march slowly down the hill and through the graveyard, the drummer moving rhythmically behind them, finally coming to a stop directly by Sarah's side. The casket is open, the lifeless body inside pale and motionless. Sarah swallows hard when she sees her own soft face, her own blonde hair, her own smooth mouth, all of it inanimate, all of it inert. The soldiers place her casket onto the ground just in front of an open grave, then click their heels together with a salute before turning and heading quickly in the direction in which they came. Only Casey's nephew stays for a moment longer, a sympathetic gleam within his eyes as he silently bids Sarah good-bye. But soon he leaves, too, following after his fellow troops. And when they're all gone, when the drumming has faded and the voices have died away, no one else comes to the funeral. No one else even comes into the graveyard.

Forcefully keeping the tears from falling from her eyes, Sarah quietly stands over her casket, gazing at her lifeless body as she bites her lip and tries to keep it from trembling. "Please tell me I can still stop this," she says, not even looking at the Spirit. Unable to tear her eyes from her still form. "Please tell me that I still have time. Please tell me that this might not happen."

But the Spirit says nothing, the Spirit does not even shift, and Sarah's left staring at her future self in utter despair. It's only when she hears the footsteps that she glances away from her still face and glances toward the sound. And when she sees the man approaching the grave, when she takes in his aging face and studies his graying curly hair, a lump rises into her throat and her eyes glisten with the tears she refuses to cry. "Chuck," she breathes.

"I had hoped it wasn't true," he murmurs, holding up a fraying newspaper article. "That maybe it was some sort of mission. Some sort of lie. I guess that would have been too good to be true," he says, giving a shaky laugh as he folds the article and places it back into his pocket. "At least they used your name, Sarah. If they hadn't, Ellie might not have found it. Ellie might not have known to give it to me." Exhaling slowly, he blinks back tears as he examines the woman lying motionless in the casket. "Do you know, I never stopped hoping that you'd return? I never stopped hoping that you'd come to your senses and come back to me. That you'd realize how much I love you, how much I need you, and quit the CIA. But," he says, his voice wavering, his lower lip quivering, "I guess that would have been too good to be true, too."

"Chuck, I do realize," Sarah interrupts, coming to stand by his side. Aching to touch him, aching to hold him, aching to let him know that she's there. That she hears him. That she understands what he's saying, how he's feeling, what she must do. But when she tries to touch his shoulder, when she tries to run her fingers through his graying curls, her hands come up on stagnant air and the tears finally start to fall from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she beseeches. "I'm so sorry. I was so wrong. So very wrong."

But the man standing at the grave doesn't hear her. He doesn't even know that she's there. Instead, as he runs his shaking fingers across her smooth lips, his own eyes fill with tears. "I never stopped loving you, Sarah," he says brokenly. "I never stopped missing you. I never stopped wanting you by my side. Wanting you in my life. I never stopped wanting _you._"

"I love you, too, Chuck," Sarah cries, trying again to touch him, to comfort him, but once again coming up with empty air. "I promise that it will be different. I promise that I won't let this happen to you. I promise that I won't let this happen to _us_."

"If I could have just one more memory," Chuck whispers, the tears running silently down his cheeks, "Just one more moment. If I could have just one more day with you, Sarah, then I'd never let you go. I'd never let you leave." Falling to his knees, he clasps the edge of the casket as the sobs finally emerge openly. "I'd tell you how much you meant to me. How much you _still_ mean to me. And how I'll never stop loving you."

"Tell me that I can still change," Sarah demands, whirling toward the Spirit and swiping her hand quickly over her wet eyes. "Tell me that it doesn't have to be like this. That I can still go back, that I can still make a difference." But the phantom doesn't speak. Instead, it simply wafts across the ground toward Sarah, its cloak rippling in the wind. "Tell me that I can fix all of this," she begs, fresh tears appearing within her eyes. "Tell me that I can set all of this right." But the Ghost still does not answer, the Ghost still does not speak. Instead, it stares at her from its sightless hood, causing her grief to turn to raw, undiluted anger. "_Tell me!" _she cries, reaching out to shake it. But as her hand connects with the cloak, as her fingers curl around the wispy black fabric, as she begins to shake the Ghost, its hood slips, its face becomes visible, its personage becomes apparent, and Sarah can't stop herself from gasping loudly at what she sees.

Standing before her, her blonde hair fluttering in the blustering wind, her blue eyes as bright and compassionate as the day she died, is her mother. "Mom," Sarah breathes, her heart skipping a beat. "Mom, is that you?"

"I didn't want this for you, Andi," her mother replies softly, and Sarah notices with a start that her eyes are shining with tears. "I didn't want things to end up this way."

"I know," Sarah replies, stifling a sob. "I'm so sorry."

"Why didn't you listen to my dying wish, honey?" Angela demands. "Why didn't you listen to my dying words?"

"I was afraid," Sarah replies, wrenching her hand from the cloak and gazing at her mother with years of regretful yearning clear upon her face. "I didn't know, I didn't understand." And then, as her mother continues to gaze at her through brilliantly compassionate eyes, and as the ache in her chest intensifies to an almost unbearable level, she continues. "Mom, please," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "Can I still fix this? Can I still change things?"

"That's up to you, sweetheart," Angela Carter murmurs, cupping Sarah's cheek.

"What do you mean?" Sarah demands, leaning into her mother's touch. "What do I have to do? Just tell me and I'll do it."

"Look inside your heart, Andi," Sarah's mother whispers, her voice cracking. "Look inside yourself, and you'll find the answer to that question."

Sarah opens her mouth to ask her mother to clarify her statement, to tell her that she needs more information. But even as her lips part, even as she feels the words forming within her throat, Chuck's face pops into her mind, his innocent eyes flicker through her thoughts, his loving expression appears within her memory. And even before she can speak the words, even before she can utter the question, she suddenly knows exactly what she has to do. She suddenly knows exactly who she needs to talk to. So instead, as she gazes lovingly at her mother, she finds herself saying something else entirely. "I miss you, Mom," she says softly, turning her head so that she can kiss the palm of her mother's hand. "I miss you all the time."

"I'm with you every day, sweetheart," Angela replies, her eyes glistening with tears. "I watch over you every night."

"Then why can't I ever see you?" Sarah demands. "Why haven't I ever felt you there?"

"All you have to do is look inside yourself, Andi," her mother replies sadly, consolingly. "You'll find me there."

Sarah's throat tightens as the tears begin to spill from her eyes anew. "I'll do that," she promises. And then: "How long can you stay?"

"I'm afraid that I have to get going now," Angela replies. "I've only been given a few hours upon this earth. A few hours to show you the error of your ways."

"But I don't want you to go," Sarah says urgently, desperately, placing her hand over her mother's cool fingers. "I don't want you to leave."

"I'll always be with you, Andi," her mother replies. "Just look inside of your own heart, and I'll be there." And then her hand drops back to her side and she begins drifting backward, back through the cemetery, back through the graves, back through the misty world which has become all too real. And even as Sarah cries out for her, even as she reaches out her desperate arms, even as she attempts to run in her direction, the wind picks up surprising force and knocks her backward, sending her stumbling into the dark, dank grave which lays open by her feet. Her hands fly up to catch something, to catch anything, to stop her fall, but they come up empty, and she slips backward into the grave.

Falling, falling, falling, a loud scream escapes her lips as she continues to grasp for something to hold, as she continues to grasp for something to latch onto, but still she comes up empty. And then, just before she's given up entirely, just before she's resigned herself to falling forever through the empty world, she lands upon a soft, warm mattress. Her breath emerging in ragged gasps, her fingers scrabbling to clutch onto the sheets, Sarah glances frantically at her surroundings, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart as she figures out where she's landed. As she figures out where she's found herself now.

But as her breathing slows and her heart rate returns to normal, as she sinks into the mattress and grabs hold of the sheets, she suddenly realizes that her environs are familiar. Her vicinity is well-known. Somehow, in the space of a few seconds, she's landed in her own room, on top of her own bed. And shining through the plate glass window is the early morning sun.


	5. Stave Five

**A/N: **When I first conceived this idea back in October, it burned so brightly within my imagination that I knew I just had to write it. And even though I suffered through a month of writer's block in November, I just couldn't put it to rest. So in late November, I chose to try my hand at crafting Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" to fit the wonderfully chaotic relationship of Chuck and Sarah. This is the finished result. It's been quite a ride full of imaginative brainstorming, late night writing sessions, and moments of pleasure when I got to share the newest chapters with all of you. Through it all, I've loved hearing what you've all had to say, and I truly appreciate the attention you've given to this (not so little) tale. Thanks so much for your enthusiasm and support. You guys rock, and I hope you have some wonderful holidays.

And now for the final chapter . . .

**Stave Five: The End of It**

"I'm home," Sarah murmurs. _Is this real? Can this be true? Am I really back, am I really home, am I really _alive_?_ Running shaky fingers over her mattress just to test its existence, a look of wonder dawns upon her face. "I'm in bed. I'm in _my _bed." She comes to a sitting position, her blonde hair mussed and her blue eyes wide as she searches the confines of her room. "And I'm in my hotel room. I'm in my own room." Jumping from her bed, she pads quickly to the large window facing onto the street, her face flushedand a gradual gleam of excitement entering her vibrant eyes. "It's morning," she murmurs, staring through the window at the light flow of traffic and the straggle of mingling passersby. Her pulse increases at the sight, at the scene which greets her disbelieving, enthusiastic gaze.

Could it be? Was it possible? Had she visited spans of years, eons of memories within the space of a single night, and come home to greet the world on Christmas Day?

_I have to know. I have to know if this is real, if I'm really here, if it's really still Christmas. If I really haven't missed my chance to make things right. _Whirling from her window, her black night shirt rumpled and creased, she sprints for her door and out into the hall. "Excuse me!" she cries to the first woman she sees. And when the Hispanic maid turns with arched brow, she rushes forward without a second's beat. "What day is it, Ma'am?" she asks urgently, tapping her fingertips against her legs in barely contained excitement.

"¿Que?" the woman responds, motioning to her ear and furrowing her brow.

"Um," Sarah frantically wracks her mind for the Spanish version of her request, "¿Qué diá es hoy? ¿¿Qué diá es hoy??"

The woman drops her towel and blinks in surprise. "Es el diá de Navidad, la señorita," she exclaims.

"It's Christmas Day?" Sarah repeats, a wide grin spreading across her face as her heart skips a beat. She hadn't missed it. She still had time, she still had a chance. She still had an opportunity to fix it all. "Gracias, señora," she replies, rushing forward and giving the startled maid a kiss on the cheek. "Gracias!" She kisses her again. And then, as the maid raises a stunned hand to her chest at the monumental change in her hotel's most aloof guest, Sarah whirls around and races back to her room, her blonde hair flying along behind her. "Oh, by the way," she says before she closes the door, too excited to translate into Spanish, "You're the best maid I've ever had, and I'm leaving you a fat Christmas bonus." And with that, she slams her door shut, leaving the maid gaping after her.

Moments later, when Sarah is fully dressed in a blue sweater, jeans and sneakers, she takes a deep breath and looks at herself in the mirror. Just as the maid had done before her, she can't help but blink in surprise at the change that has taken place over night. Gone is the mask she's hidden behind for most of her life. Gone is the shield she's taken refuge behind every time things got too overwhelming, every time the panic intensified and the fear sent icy chills through her veins. Gone is the desire to ever take shelter behind them again. In their place stands a blonde twenty-eight year old, with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, and the intense desire to feel, to love, to _live_.

And even though she's not sure how her new outlook is going to fit with the Agency, and despite the fact that she knows she has many obstacles remain in her path, for the first time in her life she's ready to face them head on. For the first time in her life, she's ready to fight. Not with a gun, or a knife, or even her fists. But with her heart. So when her phone rings, interrupting her thoughts and jolting her back to the present, she's ready for who happens to be on the other line. "Walker," is her familiar answer. And yet the words are tinged with a touch of cheerfulness, of buoyancy that haven't been present in her voice for quite some time.

"Sarah?" comes Beckman's confused response, and she can practically see the General's brow furrowing.

"Hi, General," Sarah replies, just as cheerful, just as full of life. "How are you today?"

A weighty pause greets her, followed quickly by Beckman's gruff: "Fine. Sarah, I need you to report to the Castle immediately. I've just been given a lead on the Ring."

Even in spite of her earlier resolve, Sarah can feel herself tensing, can feel her Agent training coming into play. Can feel her cheerful demeanor fading, to be replaced by the shield of a hard-nosed CIA agent. But before she can fully give in, before it can fully take effect, Chuck's familiar loving face flickers through her mind, her nightly journeys thread through her thoughts, and her mother's parting words echo within her head. _This isn't what I wanted for you, Andi._

"Sarah?" Beckman prods. "Are you still there?"

"I'm sorry, General," Sarah finds herself saying, even as her chest tightens at the ramifications of her words. "I won't be coming into work today."

"Pardon me?" the General demands, and Sarah draws herself up to her full height, bracing herself under the anger of the woman's voice.

"It's Christmas Day, General Beckman," she says, her hesitant tone growing stronger with each new word. "And I plan to spend the day with Chuck Bartowski and his family."

"Well," Beckman replies after a moment, the hesitancy clear within her voice, "I suppose the cover does have to be taken into account."

For some reason, the statement rankles Sarah more than anything else. And as her hand travels instinctively to the jewelry box resting upon her dresser, she flashes back to the scenes that she's been shown, to the shadows that she's seen. To the moment that she spent standing inside a bland Agency boardroom, staring at a picture of a much older Casey as a decrepit General Beckman dangled a silver bracelet before her face and pronounced her a burnout. A liability, who had let her emotions get in the way. Who had become a nuisance on the very Agency she had given her life to protect, all because she hadn't faced the overwhelming feelings pulsing through her chest. "Oh," she says cheerfully, a soft smile spreading across her face as she pulls a silver bracelet from her jewelry box, "It's not just a cover, General."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're saying, Sarah," Beckman replies after another long pause.

"Don't you?" Sarah replies knowingly, fingering the delicate silver charms. "Then let me explain. I'm in love with Chuck. And I'm spending Christmas Day with him and his family."

"Agent Walker," General Beckman responds, daggers present in her tone, "Did you just admit to me that you're in love with your asset? The very same asset you've been tasked with protecting? The very same asset whose well-being means the entire livelihood of this mission?"

"Actually, that's a lie," Sarah replies smoothly, even as her pulse quickens anew.

"It had better –"

"I'm not just in love with Chuck, General," Sarah replies, slipping the bracelet onto her wrist. "I'm completely in love with him. I'm so in love with him that I'm not sure they've come up with a word for how I really feel." Even as she says it, even as the words leave her lips, she can't believe what she's saying. She can't believe that she's finally getting it off her chest. She can't believe that the person she's telling is General Beckman, the very same person who called her feelings a distraction. And yet she can't stop the wide grin from spreading across her face.

"This is unacceptable, Walker," Beckman bites. "As of this moment, you are removed –"

"Let's get one thing straight, General," Sarah interrupts, reveling in the feel of the cool chain against her wrist. "I have given everything for the Agency. I have given my entire life to protecting the greater good. And Chuck Bartowski has given everything he's got to become someone he never wanted to be." Crossing her arms tightly over her chest, she slips the phone between shoulder and ear, intent on making her next words as firm, as distinct as possible. "And we're the best damn team the Agency has ever had. We've brought in more marks, we've captured more suspects than any other team in the last three decades."

"Go on," Beckman replies coolly.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah fixes her jaw and continues. "So if you want to bring down the Ring, we're the team you want," she says. "If you want to capture all enemy agents, we're the team you need. And if you want to stop them from ever being revitalized again, we're the team you've got to stand by. But there's something I need from you first."

"I'm listening, Agent," General Beckman concedes warily, and Sarah can hear her gritting her teeth in suppressed anger.

"Good," Sarah replies, the cheerful undertone reemerging within her voice. "Then listen closely. I guarantee you that we will bring down the Ring. I guarantee you that we will stifle their entire operation. But when it's all over, and every Ring agent has been brought down, then Chuck and I walk. No government interference, no agency spies. We'll be free."

The General sighs heavily into the receiver. "You've got a contract, Walker. And the Intersect is too valuable. You can't just –"

"Watch me," Sarah replies. "Because if you don't cut us loose, then I promise you that you will live to regret it."

"Are you threatening me, Agent Walker?" Beckman snaps.

"With all due respect, Ma'am," Sarah replies sweetly, "I haven't even begun to threaten you. But before I do, I was hoping we could come to an agreement."

"Very well, Walker," Beckman replies a moment later. "If you bring down the Ring, and you don't let these . . . _feelings_ interfere with your work, then we'll consider your proposition."

"Make sure you consider it carefully," Sarah states, keeping her tone purposely light even as she searches for another suitable threat. Finally, her thoughts land on a man she'd seen that very night. A man who had commiserated the passing of true love even when he'd decided that it wasn't enough. And suddenly, she decides to risk a suspicion she's harbored since his last visit. "Because I haven't even gotten to the part about Roan Montgomery yet," she says, gripping the phone a little tighter against her ear.

"Roan Montgomery?" the General queries, a hint of disbelief punctuating her casual question.

"Mmm," Sarah replies, nodding as a slight sense of relief pervades her slender frame. "He couldn't say enough about you the last time he was here. In fact," she continues, a twinkle in her eyes, "I think he even has some pictures."

Another pause greets Sarah's words, this one much longer, this one much more weighty. "Very well, Walker," Beckman finally repeats, her tone acidic. "If you bring down the Ring and capture every last agent, then consider your contract null and void, and the Intersect free."

"I knew we could see eye-to-eye, General," Sarah replies cheerfully, her grin flaring once again. "Oh, and there's something else," she says just before she hangs up the phone.

"Yes, Walker?" is the wary reply.

"Merry Christmas!" Sarah exclaims, biting her lower lip to suppress a quick laugh. And when the phone goes dead before the General can respond, it finally bubbles up from deep within her throat, spilling from her lips and echoing off her walls, the merriment so clear within the sound that she can hardly believe it escaped from her own mouth. Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she skips from the room and down the hall, the bracelet dangling jauntily from her wrist.

Jabbing the elevator button, her conversation with Beckman resounds through her mind, playing repeatedly through her thoughts as a feeling of weightless disbelief descends upon her shoulders. Because even though she still doesn't trust the General, and even though she half expects a hasty reassignment by tomorrow morning, the fact remains that for the first time in twenty years she's ready to fight. She's ready to go head to head with her fears, with her panic, with the very Agency to which she once pledged her life. And even if Beckman goes back on her word, and even if things don't turn out as she hopes, she knows that it won't change the way she feels now. It won't change her desire to fight, her desire to live, her desire to give everything that she's got to the world she's hidden from for so long.

Yanking her phone back out of her pocket, she sends a hasty text message to Casey's cell: "Merry Christmas. Thanks for being such a great partner!" And when she receives a message back a few minutes later ("Keep your lady feelings to yourself, Walker.") and another directly after that ("MC"), she can't help but feel a rush of affection for the partner who would give her a decent funeral even when he's spent three years hiding every emotion almost as well as she has. And even though she'll never tell him that, and even though things will probably go back to normal as soon as he returns, she resolves to never forget what a wonderful partner John Casey really is. The next time they spar, she promises to let him get in a lucky punch.

Striding jovially out to the parking lot, she flashes radiant grins at everyone she sees, causing one man to trip over a chair and sending two others careening into a nearby wall as they stare in slack jawed wonder at the beautiful blonde enigma who's never so much as looked in their direction. And when she sits behind the wheel of her beloved Porsche, and she turns the key in the ignition, sending Christmas music blaring from the pristine stereo system centrally positioned upon her dashboard, she can't stop herself from singing along. "God bless ye, Merry Gentlemen," she sings off-key at the top of her voice. "Let nothing you dismay. Bum bum bum bum ba bum bum," she begins tapping the steering wheel with her palm, "Ba bum bum bum bum bum." Streaking out of the parking lot, she leaves the shadows behind her as she drives off into a bright, happy Christmas Day, a world of wonder spreading out before her very eyes.

Magnificent Christmas trees stand aloft in large, gleaming windows; thick, decorous wreaths welcome families and friends approaching the doorsteps of those they hold most dear; and displays of reindeer, snowmen and jolly Santa Clauses peer at her from various rooftops. But the thing she notices most of all, the thing that truly catches her eyes are the people. The carefree, loving people enjoying a world in which they have the simple pleasure of being together. And as she gets closer to her destination, as her Porsche moves nearer to the person she most wants to see, her heart rate picks up speed and her stomach muscles knot in anticipation of the scene she hopes to find.

But first, before she can visit Chuck, before she can even begin to set things right, there's one stop she has to make. Peeling into the parking lot of a Has Everything on the outskirts of town, she dashes to the door and pounds upon the window. And when a disgruntled janitor peers at her from the murky depths of the shop, when his eyes alight at the sight of the gorgeous blonde waiting breathlessly to be let in, he fumbles with his keys and heads quickly to the entrance of the store.

"Can I help you, Miss?" he asks, glancing at her shyly from underneath his long brown lashes.

"Hi, there," Sarah replies, smiling flirtatiously at the middle-aged man. "How would you like to make two-hundred dollars today?"

"Two – two-hundred dollars?" the man stutters, his eyes going wide.

"Sure," Sarah replies easily, running her finger along his bony chest and causing him to blush. "If you'll let me buy some late Christmas presents and a Turkey dinner," she says, "And if you'll promise to deliver that Turkey dinner to two very questionable gentlemen, then I'll pay you for your troubles."

"I'm not supposed to let –"

"Oh, come on," Sarah cuts in, smiling brightly as she fixes his collar. "No one has to know."

"Well," he says, dropping his gaze and scuffing the floor with his shoe. "I guess for two-hundred dollars . . ."

"Great!" Sarah replies cheerfully, quickly abandoning her ministrations to his shirt and entering the store. "You have a photo center, right?" she calls over her shoulder as the man gapes after her in bewilderment.

An hour later, she leaves the shop with her arms weighed down with presents and a bounce in her step, a Turkey dinner headed to Jeff and Lester's front door.

~*~

Sarah stands at the threshold to Chuck's apartment, her arms wrapped around a plethora of brightly wrapped presents, her blonde hair rippling around her slender shoulders, her features fixed into a nervous, resolute line. Never before has she been so tense standing at Chuck's front door; never before has her heart beat quite so frantically. But as she bites her lower lip and stares at the thick, decorous wreath hanging above the knob; as she shifts silently upon the sidewalk and tries to work up the courage to ring the bell; as her thoughts wander to the journey she's just taken, to the lessons she's just learned, to the mission she must accomplish, she finds her stomach fluttering with a sense of excitement at the move she's about to take. At the words she knows she will finally say.

So when her arms begin to ache from the weight of the packages, and the chill Burbank wind begins to bite into the smooth skin of her rosy cheeks, she finally raises a tentative hand and knocks upon the door. And when the door swings open a few seconds later and Devon appears in her path, she can't stop the nervous smile which spreads across her flushed face. "Devon," she says blithely, shifting to get a better grasp on the presents balanced precariously within her arms. "Hi."

"Wow," Devon intones, his eyes widening at the sight. "When did Santa start hiring hot blondes to do his dirty work?"

Sarah blushes as an uneasy laugh escapes her lips. "When you find out, let me know," she returns. "I'm doing this for free."

"It's good to see you, Sarah," Devon replies, smiling smoothly as he takes the packages from her arms. "We were afraid you –"

"Sarah?" comes a familiar feminine voice. "Sarah's here?" And before another second has passed, Ellie has inserted herself in between the pair, her brow furrowed and her lips parted in surprise.

"Hi, Ellie," Sarah replies awkwardly, her gaze dropping to the pavement as she attempts to keep herself from taking refuge behind her familiar mask. As she attempts to keep herself from hiding behind her familiar shield, even as her thoughts flicker back to the scene she witnessed between Ellie and Devon, to the moment when Ellie had expressed her hatred because of everything that Sarah had done. Because of everything she had put Chuck through. Because of everything that she had become. "Merry Christmas," she finally says.

"Merry Christmas," Ellie replies blankly. And then, when she's taken a moment to come back into herself, and when the cold wind begins to batter her cheeks and toss her long brown hair, she blinks and stands up straight, a guarded expression entering her hazel eyes. "We didn't think you were going to come," she says cautiously, causing Devon to glance between them both and retreat into the safety of his home.

"Ellie," Sarah starts, and then she finds that she's not quite sure what to say. _I'm sorry? I didn't know? I didn't realize how much I was hurting Chuck? How much pain I was putting him through? How much damage I was causing to myself? _"I was wondering if I could still accept the invitation?" she finally resigns herself to saying, forcing her gaze back to Ellie's own. "If I could still spend Christmas with your family?"

"That depends," Ellie replies, still just as cautious, still just as guarded. "Is this just a one day thing? Or are you going to be around more permanently?"

"I'm going to be around for as long as Chuck will have me," Sarah states, the words falling from her lips before she can even think about them. But even as they sound within the chill air between the women, she knows just how true they are. "I'm going to be around for as long as he wants me to be." She almost breathes a sigh of relief when she notices Ellie's guard begin to slip, when she watches the wariness within her eyes begin to fade. Taking a deep breath, she rushes ahead. "Ellie, I'm sorry," she says, a brilliant layer of sincerity underlying her words. "You've always made me feel like a part of your family, but I didn't understand until recently just how much I wanted that. I didn't understand until recently just how much that meant to me." She opens her mouth to continue, to elaborate, but the words die in her throat before she can speak them. She's already said more than she expected, she's already revealed more than she's ever revealed before. She's already opened herself up more than she ever thought possible. So instead, she waits with bated breath for the brunette's response.

Folding her lips, Ellie's eyes turn bright as she considers Sarah's words. But slowly, her guarded expression vanishes to be replaced by a hesitant, welcoming smile. "You _are_ a part of our family, Sarah," she says. "You've been a part of our family from the day that you met Chuck."

"Thank you," Sarah replies. And even though the conversation is still awkward, and even though she's still not quite sure how to handle this confrontation with the elder Bartowski, her heart skips a beat at the brunette's statement.

"But you have to promise me something," Ellie continues, and Sarah notices with a pang that the guarded expression continues to mingle with the acceptance reflected within her eyes.

"What's that?" she asks, shifting uneasily.

"Don't hurt him again," Ellie cautions, her forehead creasing. "He's been through enough."

"I promise," Sarah replies, her chest twisting as a slight flicker of pain wafts across her face. "I won't."

"Good," Ellie nods. "Because out of anyone I've ever known, Chuck deserves to be happy. And you make him happy, Sarah."

"Where is Chuck?" Sarah asks nervously, her cheeks slightly red from the unexpected compliment, as well as from the direct confrontation she's just endured.

Ellie stares at her, weighing her words before another smile finally spreads across her face. "In his room," she replies, stepping aside so that Sarah can enter the house. "I think he's trying to catch a few last minutes of sleep." Leaning against the wall, she studies the blonde thoughtfully for a moment. "But something tells me that he won't mind the interruption," she finally says.

"I hope not," Sarah replies nervously, even as her pulse quickens anew. Breathing in deeply, she moves toward Chuck's room, stopping quickly at the Christmas tree to pick up a bright blue bag Devon had taken from her arms a few minutes before. And when the present is dangling from her fingertips, she swallows the tightness which has entered her throat and finishes her journey to Chuck's room, hesitating only a moment before knocking softly on the door.

"Just a few more minutes," comes a familiar sleepy voice.

Sarah's heart skips a beat at the sound, at the voice. At the reminder of Chuck's proximity. Taking another deep breath, she raises her hand to knock again, her present hanging hopefully from her hand.

"Come in," Chuck calls after a short pause, and she hears the rustling of sheets and the sound of bare feet hitting a carpeted floor. Taking a moment to compose herself, to force any signs of nervousness from her face, from her voice, Sarah pushes open the door and enters the room.

"Hey," she says softly, her lips quirking upward into an affectionate smile when she notices the man standing no more than a few feet away. His slim muscles are apparent beneath a thin white t-shirt and blue boxer shorts, his curly brown hair is mussed from a long night's sleep, and his cinnamon eyes brighten the moment he sees who's walked into his room. _My dad's expression_, Sarah's heart skips another beat. _Every time he saw my mom._

"Sarah," Chuck breathes, taking a few instinctual steps in her direction. He rakes her face with hungry eyes, cocking his head slightly as he studies the rosy hue to her cheeks and the bright light upon her face. "You came," he finally says.

"You invited me, didn't you?" she teases, her smile growing even as her stomach knots with anticipation.

"Well, yeah," Chuck replies, grinning slightly. "But I've learned that you don't always do what I ask."

"Imagine that," Sarah replies, winking. And then, because she can't wait any longer, and because she's wanted this for the last three years, she plunges ahead. "I brought you a present," she says softly, raising the bag clutched lightly in her hand. The blue material sparkles underneath his bedroom light, the gift inside jostling quietly as she hands it to Chuck.

"You didn't have to do that," his grin widens as he reaches out to grab the bag, his fingertips brushing lightly against her soft hand in the process. And as a jolt of electricity rushes through her fingers and straight into her chest, she watches with bated breath as he unwraps his gift. "It's a picture," he says, staring at the photo enclosed within the silver frame. "Of us, just after Ellie and Awesome exchanged their vows."

"It is," Sarah replies lightly, stepping to his side so that she can gaze at the portrait. "But it's more than that, too."

"What do you mean?" Chuck asks, glancing at her curiously.

Inhaling slowly, attempting to calm the rapid beating of her heart, Sarah allows a tender light to enter her vibrant blue gaze. "That's the moment that I decided that I was going to stay in Burbank," she says quietly, folding her lips as she waits anxiously for his response.

"I don't understand," Chuck replies slowly, shaking his head. "You decided you were going to stay in Burbank? But . . . what about Bryce? And the mission?" he asks, his forehead furrowing. "What about the CIA?"

"What about them?" Sarah replies gently, brushing softly against Chuck's arm even as her stomach muscles continue to knot. And when he finally notices the bracelet dangling from her wrist, the hopefulness within his eyes grows even more pronounced.

"Well, I thought –"

But she interrupts before he can finish. She's waited too long, she's put him through too much. She's put _herself_ through too much. "I decided that they didn't compare," she says quietly, "to staying here with the man I love. I decided that they didn't compare to _you_, Chuck."

"What are you saying, Sarah?" Chuck queries breathlessly, his eyes dilating as he swivels to meet Sarah's affectionate gaze.

"I'm saying," she elaborates, taking a step closer to the computer nerd, the emotions more prevalent upon her face than they've ever been before, "That I can't live without you, Chuck. I'm saying that if given a choice between you and the CIA, I'd choose you in a heartbeat." Taking another step in his direction, their faces so close that she can feel his breath hot and intoxicating upon her cheek, she clarifies still further. "I'm saying that I'm in love with you, Chuck. I'm so in love with you that I don't think they've invented words to describe how I really feel."

His gaze turning bright, Chuck swallows hard as he raises his hand to caress Sarah's jaw. "I love you, too, Sarah," he whispers. "I've loved you almost since the first moment I saw you."

"I'm so sorry," she says, leaning eagerly into his touch. "I'm so sorry for everything I've put you through. For all the –"

"Shh," Chuck says, moving his index finger so that he can trace the smooth lines of her lips. "You have nothing to apologize for. I've already forgiven you."

Blinking at his ready forgiveness, at the love so visible within his features, Sarah stares at him for a long moment. She can't believe that it was this easy, she can't believe that he's forgiven her so much. She can't believe that she's standing directly before him, her feelings finally exposed, her emotions finally unleashed. And as she relishes the look within his eyes, and the expression upon his face, and the feel of his fingers against her lips, a deep yearning builds within her chest, a poignant longing runs deep within her veins. Before she knows what she's doing, before she even acknowledges the words forming upon her lips, she's threading her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck and asking: "Do you mind if I kiss you now?"

A gentle smirk plays along the corner of Chuck's mouth as his eyes dance in delight. "I think I can allow –"

But he doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Rising onto her tiptoes, Sarah's heart races as she quickly closes the distance between them, crushing her lips against his soft, warm mouth. And as she continues to finger his silky curls, and he wraps his strong, solid arms around her slender frame, and they fall together into a sweet, passionate dance, their bodies moving together as if one, the shadows vanish and the long night fades away, the only thoughts permeating Sarah's haze how good it feels to be in Chuck's arms and how much she wants to spend the rest of her life wrapped in his embrace.

So when they finally break apart, when Chuck leans his forehead against Sarah's own and looks deeply into her intense blue gaze, when their ragged breathing slowly returns to normal and their rapid heartbeats slowly regain a steady rhythm, it takes Sarah a moment to return to the present. And when she does, and she sees the love in Chuck's eyes, a silly grin spreads across her face. "Hey," she says softly.

"Hey," he replies, grinning as he brushes another quick kiss across her lips. And then, pulling away again, his expression turns a little more serious. "What about the Ring, Sarah?" he asks. "What about Beckman?"

She has to force back a laugh at the irony the situation poses. At the very idea that Chuck would be worried about the Ring and Beckman, while all she wants to do is spend the rest of the day kissing him. "Don't worry about it," she says, smirking. "I've got it covered."

"You do?" he asks, arching a brow.

"Let's just say that I offered Beckman a deal that she couldn't refuse," Sarah replies, her smirk growing more prominent. "And that once the Ring is eradicated," she says, her gaze going slightly cross-eyed as it travels to his swollen lips, "I intend to spend the rest of my life showing you just how sorry I really am."

"Hmm," Chuck replies, his face splitting into his familiar charming grin. "That sounds like a deal that _I_ can't refuse." And with that, he kisses her once more, his lips caressing her mouth in a way that leaves her breathless and her pulse racing while her knees turn slightly weak.

She had almost forgotten what a good kisser Chuck Bartowski actually was. She had almost forgotten how easy it is to fall into his touch. So when he breaks the kiss this time, and leans against her forehead once more, she has to blink and forcibly return to the present moment. "So where do we go from here?" she murmurs.

"We open presents," Chuck says simply, caressing her jaw. "And drink eggnog," he continues, nuzzling her chin. "And sing Christmas carols," he elaborates, kissing her lips. "And," he says, brushing a kiss against her cheek, "Prepare ourselves to be totally," she shivers as he kisses her ear, "absolutely," goose bumps break out onto her arms when he kisses her temple, "completely heart warmed."

"Sounds like a plan," she breathes. And then she crashes her lips to his mouth, falling once again into the electricity coursing through her chest and the emotions running through her veins. Thirty minutes later, they finally make it into the living room to open presents.

~*~

"Hey, guys," Devon greets them brightly, a fluffy Santa hat perched atop his blonde head as he rifles through the presents. "We were wondering when you were going to join us."

"Is everything okay?" Ellie asks, a hopeful glint within her hazel eyes as she gazes at her brother and his girlfriend. Both flushed and sweaty, both grinning widely through deliciously bruised lips, both holding hands so tightly that a tornado probably couldn't tear them apart, they've never looked quite so happy. They've never looked quite so much in love.

"Never been better," Chuck replies, causing Sarah to blush slightly as he glances lovingly into her gleaming blue eyes.

"So, Ellie," the blonde says, clearing her throat and averting her gaze even as her hand remains intricately linked with Chuck's own. "What's this about presents?"

"I don't know, Sarah," the doctor replies, shifting her attention to the Christmas tree, "Maybe you should tell us."

"Good God," Chuck states, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight, "Where did all those come from?"

"Santa hired a hot blonde elf to help him this year," Devon returns, his smile faltering slightly when Ellie shoots him a look. "I mean, Sarah decided to bring us a real Christmas," he clarifies, flushing guiltily. "So maybe she should start." He reaches underneath the tree for a familiar bag bearing Chuck's name, a bag that Sarah had seen just the night before, leaning forlornly against the door to her hotel room.

"Oh, um," Chuck stammers, taking a seat on the edge of the couch as Sarah reaches for the gift, "Maybe we should wait."

"We've waited long enough, I think," Sarah replies, brushing a kiss against his cheek. And as Ellie positions herself upon a nearby armchair and Devon remains poised underneath the Christmas tree, the multi-colored lights reflecting brilliantly off the white fluff of his Santa hat, she reaches expectantly into the bag and pulls out an ornate silver frame, into which a photo of she and Chuck has been lovingly placed.

"It's not as good as your gift," Chuck murmurs, gazing at the photograph. "I mean, there's no special meaning to –"

"I love it," Sarah interrupts, fingering their happy faces as they relish the joy of being wrapped within each other's arms. And as the smells of Ellie's cooking drift through the air and tease her nostrils, and the sounds of the roaring fire crackling in the newly built fireplace tickle her ears, and the feel of the cool silver chain and the sensation of Chuck's warm arms flood her senses, she can't help the rush of happiness which surges through her chest. "It's one of the best presents I've ever gotten," she says, nuzzling against his side as Ellie and Devon pretend that the stack of presents are far more interesting than they really are.

"It just reminds me of _us_, you know?" Chuck asks, smiling softly.

"I do," Sarah nods. And then, because Chuck is blushing at the outpouring of emotion he's sharing in front of his sister and brother-in-law, and because she's not quite sure how much more emotion her own heart can take, she glances toward the glittering tree and smiles at the other couple.

"Why doesn't someone else open a gift?" she prods, nodding at the pile of presents.

"Good idea," Devon replies, pointing at her. "Here, babe," he says, handing Ellie a present. And with that, the festivities commence. The sounds of rustling paper and happy cries fill the scene, the smells of freshly brewed cider and jostled pine waft through the air, and the sights of happy smiles and loving grins are had by all. And when it's done, when Ellie is gazing in affectionate disapproval at Devon wearing his new fedora accompanied by a black trench coat purchased by a blonde spy, and Chuck and Sarah have made it to the couch proper, their hands still firmly linked as they revel in the feel of being wrapped up in each other, and glistening new jewelry and fuzzy new sweaters and crisp new books litter the room, stacked amongst piles of crumpled wrapping paper and stacks of discarded gift bags, Sarah realizes that she's never been so happy. Sarah realizes that she's never been so grateful to be sitting here inside a warm, cozy home with a family that's invited her to share their Christmas. With a family that's invited her to stay. With a family that has, for all intents and purposes, become her own.

And when Ellie hands out two last minute presents – identical long, thin packages meant for she and Chuck – she blinks in surprise when she recognizes the wrapping. When she realizes how much they resemble the one meant to tear Chuck from her life. Only this time, Ellie's handing her one as well.

"I wasn't sure if I was going to give this to you," the doctor apologizes, slightly abashed as she squeezes the blonde's shoulder. "Not until I saw you with my brother."

"Thanks, Ellie," Sarah replies, slightly dazed. Slipping her finger underneath the flap of the sparkling green wrapping, she finds a ticket contained within its confines just as Chuck finishes opening his own gift.

"A plane ticket," the computer nerd says blankly, glancing at the ticket Sarah's holding in her own hand. "To London?"

"I got the money from Dad's emergency stash," Ellie replies, shrugging as Devon archs his brows. "I thought that maybe you two could use some time away. I know that things have been a little . . . tense lately."

"Wow, Ellie," Sarah replies slowly, gazing at the doctor in mild wonder. "This is a really big gift."

"Yeah, well," Ellie says, blushing even as she graces Sarah with an uncertain smile. "You're a big part of our family."

The blonde hesitates for a moment, considering the gift. Considering the ramifications accompanying its acceptance. Because if she really takes this plane ticket, if she really goes to London with Chuck, it means much more than a trip. It means a chance to really embrace her new life, her new goals, her new dreams. It means a chance to become a part of the Bartowski family in a way that she hasn't been part of a family for almost as long as she can remember. And for a moment, the cool feeling of fear begins to trickle through her veins, the clammy hands of panic begin to close in upon her throat. But before she can truly give into them, before she can even begin to shut down, she registers the feel of Chuck's hand in her own. And she remembers the look of love reflected within his eyes. And she realizes that she wants nothing more than to be a part of his family, to be a part of his world for the rest of her life.

"Well," she finally says, shooting Chuck a small smile, "I have developed an affinity with Dickens lately. It might be nice to see his birthplace."

Chuck's eyes widen slightly at her response. "Are you sure?" he asks cautiously. "What about work?"

"Work can wait for a few days," Sarah replies simply, a surge of warmth flooding through her chest at the expression on his face. "I don't think it's going anywhere." And even though she knows the General won't be too happy, and even though she knows the Ring still awaits in dubious circles, she feels a steely sense of determination to ensure this trip actually happens. After everything they've given up, after everything they've accomplished for the Agency, a vacation is exactly what they both need. A vacation is exactly what they both deserve. And maybe they can even get a little international surveillance done in the process. After all, the Ring must have foreign cells.

"Why, Sarah," he intones, breaking into his crooked grin. "Does this mean that you're actually going to do me the honor of taking a vacation with me?"

"Yes, Chuck," she replies, leaning in to caress his soft mouth with her eager lips. "I think I am."

"Awesome," Devon pipes up from underneath the tree, interrupting her thoughts as he gazes at them from beneath his black fedora. "Remind me to tell you about the hot British –" But he realizes his mistake just before Ellie's expression turns slightly irate, clearing his throat and tipping back his hat. "Muffins," he finishes quickly, avoiding Ellie's eyes. "The Brits make great baked goods."

"Uh-huh," Ellie intones, rolling her eyes. "Come on, Devon," she says, holding out her hand. "I need some help with the Turkey."

Sarah watches them leave with a hopeful smile, her heart skipping a beat as she thinks about the family Christmas she's just shared. The first family Christmas she's really allowed herself to enjoy for the past twenty years. The only problem is, as she leans into Chuck's touch and relishes the feel of his smooth, warm hand and the sight of his radiant, joyful smile, she realizes that something's still missing. Something's still not quite right. And in that moment, her mind flickers to a familiar stranger, to a man she'd seen just that night, to a man who had been visiting his wife's grave. And as she thinks about that man, as she thinks about that grave, her thoughts shift to the mother she'd lost long ago. To the mother she'd missed all of her life. To the mother who had been the center of her world. So before she really knows what she's saying, before the words have even registered within her mind, she turns to Chuck with creased brow.

"Do you want to take a drive?" she asks. And the moment the question has left her mouth, she knows that it's the right thing to do.

"But what about the Turkey?" Chuck asks, glancing into the kitchen.

"We'll be back," Sarah promises. "There's just something I need to do first." And when Chuck agrees a moment later, pulling her to her feet with a quick kiss, she only feels a momentary twinge of doubt before a hesitant smile spreads across her face and she follows him out the door, intent on finally showing him a little piece of her past.

~*~

The road stretches out long and winding before them, illuminated only by the mild December sun as the black Porsche streaks across the highway and closer to Sarah's destination. A few straggling cars move by the tinted windows, packed with excited passengers and piled high with Christmas packages. Multi-colored lights twinkle in the distance, Christmas decorations adorn the fronts of assorted vehicles, and a general festive air pervades the entire scene. But even though she's spent a lifetime longing to enjoy a day like this, and despite the fact that she wants nothing more than to fall into the festivities herself, she's too wrapped up in the man gaping in horror through her windshield.

"Chuck?" Sarah furrows her forehead in concern as she glances toward the computer nerd. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," he finally squeaks, before clearing his throat. "I'm just having a hard time getting past the idea of General Beckman and _photographs_." He pronounces the last word gradually, grimacing as if it's left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Well, I didn't actually say that there were any," she replies slyly, shifting into the right-hand lane.

"You mean you made that _up_?!" Chuck cries, staring at her incredulously. "Sarah, why would you do that?"

"It sounded like a good idea at the time," she shrugs, even as a faint twinkle dances within her eyes. "Besides, Beckman bought it."

"Which is perhaps even more disturbing," Chuck returns, shaking his head and suppressing a shudder. "I just don't understand how the conversation turned to Beckman and . . . well, you know."

Folding her lips as she signals to take the next exit, Sarah debates her next statement, considering her next move. But before she can really think about it, before she can really decide how much she wants to divulge, the words seem to fall from her mouth. "I wanted to make sure that she didn't stop us from moving on once the Ring has been eradicated," she answers truthfully.

Chuck's eyes widen as he absorbs the admission. "Wait," he says slowly, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Sarah sighs, a hint of nervousness entering her gaze as she exits the highway, "That once the Ring has been defeated, once we've captured every last Agent, Beckman has agreed to let us move on. To let us live a normal life. No Intersect, no secrets, no lies. Just _us_. That is," she says hesitantly, glancing at him, "If that's what you want, Chuck."

"Sarah," he breathes, his lips parting as he leans closer to the driver's seat. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Biting her lower lip, Sarah forces the fear from her chest as she's forced to clarify her words still further. As she's forced to wait even longer for Chuck's response. Because even after everything she's seen, even after everything she's learned, she still can't keep the doubt from resounding through her mind and wreaking mild havoc on her senses. So as she pulls over to the side of the road, she has to take a deep breath before she turns to look into his tumultuous, gleaming brown eyes. "I'm saying," she says, "That I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you, Chuck. That once this thing is over and the mission is finished, we've been given permission to make our lives as normal as possible. And because I'm not so used to normal, I was hoping you'd help me figure out how it goes."

Swallowing gently, Chuck raises his hand to cup Sarah's cheek. "Why me?" he asks, even though it's fairly clear from the expression in his eyes that he knows the truth.

"Haven't we already covered that?" Sarah teases, shifting so that she can kiss the palm of his hand. "I love you, Chuck." And with that, she leans forward and brushes her lips against his own, melting into his touch as he deepens the kiss and plunges his warm tongue into the soft recesses of her mouth. She's not sure how long they remain wrapped in one another's embrace. She's not sure how much time has passed when they finally pull apart. The only thing of which she's certain, the only thing which permeates her conscious mind when she gazes into his loving cinnamon eyes, is the way her heart races when his familiar grin spreads across his face.

"Well, since you put it that way," he says, "I guess that I have no choice but to help you figure out this new stage in your life."

"You've always been so giving," Sarah rolls her eyes, relishing the feel of Chuck's thumb as it strokes her face.

"What can I say?" Chuck returns, smirking. "My father raised me to be a gentleman."

"Remind me to thank him one of these days," she replies, kissing his thumb as it roves over her lower lip.

"I'll do that," Chuck says, winking. And then, as he continues to explore her lips with his strong hand, as he continues to gaze intently into her eyes, his expression turns slightly somber, his countenance slightly more serious. "Can I ask you something?" he questions, moving his hand back to his lap.

"Sure," Sarah replies, her forehead crinkling as a sense of emptiness engulfs her at the loss of contact.

"Why now?" he queries, arching a brow. "Why tell me all of this now? I mean," he says, reaching for her hand when he notices her eyes drop in mild anticipation of what she knows he will say, "Did something happen?"

Inhaling deeply, Sarah studies Chuck's hand as his fingers wind through the negative spaces of her own, causing a warm current to spike through her wrist. "I just realized something," she finally says.

"What?" he asks quietly, squeezing her hand.

"That I was afraid." It slips forth before she can stop it, the words sounding thick and heady in the air between them as her gaze flickers back to his affectionate brown eyes. As she considers the impact of her statement, the ramifications of her admission. Biting her lower lip, she waits silently for his reaction.

"Afraid?" Chuck queries, a thin crease appearing between his eyes. "Of what?"

"You." The word is quiet, simple, and yet it holds so much weight. And when his face twists with gentle hurt and his features contort with mild pain, she rushes forward to clarify. "I'm sorry," she says quickly, massaging his hand with her fingertips. "I didn't mean that." Sighing, she blinks and glances out the windshield for a moment before returning her gaze to his own. "What I meant to say was that I was afraid of losing you, Chuck."

"Of losing me?" Chuck questions softly, shaking his head. "But why?"

Swallowing gently, a slightly distant cast enters Sarah's eyes as she weighs her next statement. As she braces herself for what she knows she has to say. For what she knows she has to do. Because even though she's determined to change, even though she's determined to let him in, the fact remains that she's had no practice opening up. She's had no practice letting go. So when she finally focuses her bright blue eyes upon his own cinnamon gaze, when she finally forces herself to explore a past she's buried for so long, she can't keep her stomach from knotting and her heart from twisting in her chest. "When I was just a kid, I lost someone I really cared about," she says, a hint of trepidation reflected within her voice. "And after I lost them, my entire life changed. Everything that I ever thought I knew was taken from me."

"I'm sorry," Chuck replies gently, even as he blinks in surprise at how much she's told him. At how much she's opened up. But when she continues to gaze steadily into his eyes, when she continues to stroke his hand, his courage seems to strengthen and he continues. "Who was it?" he asks.

"My mother," is her quiet response, and Chuck's eyes brighten as his mouth parts in affectionate sympathy. But before he can offer his condolences, before he can even say anything else, she nods toward the monument beside which she's parked her sleek black Porsche. "That's why we're here," she says, and Chuck turns to find himself looking at the gates of a Riverside cemetery. "You've always wondered where I grew up," she continues. "This is it."

"You grew up in a cemetery?" Chuck asks blankly, swiveling around to gaze at her in bewilderment.

"Not exactly," she says, unable to keep herself from smirking even in spite of her recent revelation. "I grew up in Riverside. This is just the place that means the most." And with that, she leans forward to give him a peck on the lips before dropping his hand and sliding out of the car, closing the door behind her. "Come on," she says as he follows suit, the confusion still apparent on his face. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Grabbing his hand once more, she leads him through the crisp, chill air of the cemetery, the nervous glint within her eyes contrasting sharply with the resolute smile upon her face. And even though she feels as if she just left this place, and even though the memories of the night before are still clear within her mind, the utter fear and mind numbing panic she experienced only a few hours before are eclipsed by the warm strength which surges through her frame at the feel of Chuck's hand in her own and the knowledge that he's close by. So when she finally reaches her destination, when she finally comes to a stop beside a grave she hasn't seen for the last two decades, she leans against his side and allows herself to gain strength from his touch.

"Chuck," she says, gazing heavily at the tombstone which depicts her mother's name, "I'd like you to meet my mother."

"Your mother?" Chuck repeats, glancing at her with wide eyes. And when she turns to him with her sad, determined smile, the affection deepens upon his face and he strengthens his grip within her hand. "What's her name?" he asks quietly, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Angela," Sarah replies, leaning into his touch. "Angela Carter."

Nodding as a compassionate hue enters his eyes, he turns back to face the grave. "Hi, Mrs. Carter," he says, smiling gently. "It's, uh, it's nice to meet you." And then his muscles seem to relax, and he falls more naturally into his speech. "Actually," he says, studying the tombstone, "I guess I should thank you. You see, you've raised an amazing daughter. A daughter who's saved my life more times than I can count. And," he continues, glancing at Sarah out of the corner of his eyes as the affection within his smile increases in wattage, "I'm completely in love with her. In fact, she's the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. So, thank you for doing such a great job."

When Chuck has finished, Sarah has to swallow the lump that has risen into her throat. "Mom, it's Andi," she begins, taking a deep breath to stop her voice from cracking. "Mom, you told me once to be happy. Well, I'm afraid that I haven't really followed your instructions very well. But," she says, turning gleaming eyes on Chuck, "I'm ready to change all that now. I'm ready to be happy. I'm ready to live my life, just like you asked. And," she says, biting her lower lip to keep it from trembling, "I'm ready to find love, and embrace it. But I have to apologize first," she continues as her eyes start to shine with unshed tears. "Because I haven't been around lately. I haven't been around for the last twenty years," she says ruefully. "But that's all going to change now. I promise to visit more regularly. I promise to be a better daughter. I promise to be a better person. Because I know that's what you'd want me to do. And I plan to spend the rest of my life trying to make you proud."

"I think she is proud of you," Chuck says softly, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. "How could she not be?"

"I haven't done many things to make her that way lately," Sarah confesses, dropping his hand so that she can wrap her arm around his lower back.

"Sarah, you've spent your life protecting other people," Chuck replies, placing a kiss atop her blonde head. "I think she knows that."

"Maybe," Sarah replies dubiously, folding her lips. But even as she says it, even as the sentiment flows through her slender frame and echoes within her mind, she feels a sudden spark alight within her chest. And before she knows what's happening, before she can even start in surprise, a voice resounds through her head. _I've always been proud of you, Andi._ And as she closes her eyes and relishes the sound of her mother's voice, two more statements follow the last. _Be happy, sweetheart. I love you._

"I love you, too, Mom," she whispers as her chest twists and tears prickle her bright blue eyes. And then, after one last gentle glance at the grave, she turns to the man by her side with a soft smile. "Ready for a Turkey dinner?" she asks.

He studies her for a moment until he's sure that she's ready to move on, and then his grin flares anew. "And eggnog," he replies, nodding. "And stuffing. And cranberry sauce. Oh, and those little potato things that my sister makes so well."

Laughing softly, she turns with him to head back to the car, her arm still wrapped tightly around his back. "You're making me hungry," she teases, bumping against his hip.

"What can I say?" he replies. "My sister cooks a mean Christmas dinner." And then, glancing at her slyly from the edge of his eyes, "Andi."

Shaking her head, she can't help but grin. "It's a name," she says simply, shrugging.

"It's _your_ name," Chuck replies, tightening his grip around her frame. "And I happen to like it."

"Do you now?" Sarah replies coyly, nearing the edge of the graveyard.

"Mmm," Chuck nods. "Almost as much as . . ." But his voice trails off when the graveyard suddenly increases in number as a morose figure walks slowly into their path, with shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. "Isn't that –?"

"My father," Sarah finishes, stopping in her tracks. _Here to visit my mother. Here to visit his wife. Here to visit the woman he loves. _And when her father's head snaps up in surprise, and his lips part when he registers who's standing before him, her chest clenches and her features twist in sympathy. "Dad," she says softly, greeting him.

"Angel," Jack Burton replies, and Sarah watches in doleful regret as he forces his familiar mask back into place. "Schnook," he nods at Chuck. "What are you two kids doing out here on Christmas Day?"

"Maybe I should wait in the car," Chuck suggests, the irony of the statement lost in the moment. In fact, as Sarah nods gratefully and hands him the keys, she hardly takes her eyes from her father. And when he drops his arm from around her waist and steps toward the graveyard exit, she only spares him a quick, affectionate smile before answering her father's question.

"We're visiting Mom," she replies, her brow creasing as her smile turns hesitant. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know," Jack shrugs, even as a flicker of pain courses through his eyes at her words. "I figured that a walk through the graveyard was just the thing to get my blood pumping. You never can get enough exercise."

"Dad," Sarah replies, sympathy mingling with the hesitancy of her expression. "How long have you been coming out here on Christmas?"

Averting his gaze, Jack licks his lips and nudges a loose stone with his loafer. "Ever since I got out of jail five years ago," he replies, his statement almost inaudible within the silent yard.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Sarah asks, her throat tightening as she places a hand on his arm.

"It was something I had to do alone," he replies. And then he glances back into Sarah's compassionate eyes, his careful mask sliding back into place. "But this is no place for you to be on Christmas, Angel. You must have somewhere else to go?"

"Actually," Sarah says, cocking her head as a light dawns upon her face. "I have a dinner to go to. How would you like to join me?"

Jack's eyebrows raise as he considers her invitation, but then he shakes his head. "You don't want me to rain in on your dinner plans, sweetheart," he says.

"You wouldn't be raining in on them, Dad," Sarah replies, her fingers curling around his forearm. "In fact, I'd love to have you there." And then, as she continues to look into her father's eyes, and as she watches the hesitancy grow into a mild expression of hope, she continues. "Please?" she says, her expression gentle yet resolute.

"Well, since you put it that way," he replies, a slow grin spreading across his face, "I guess I really can't say no."

"To free food?" Sarah teases, matching him grin for grin, "You've never been able to before."

"It beats conning the Salvation Army out of a Turkey dinner," Jack agrees, even as Sarah blanches slightly at the reminder. And then: "Just let me take care of something real quick, okay?"

"Sure, Dad," she says, nodding. And with that, she watches her father walk to her mother's grave and begin talking to the woman whose life had been the pinnacle of their world. To the woman whose death had changed their lives forever. To the woman whose love had made it possible to live again.

Hours later, when they've finally made it back to Burbank and she's sitting beside Chuck, their hands clasped underneath the table with her father on the other side, smiling pleasantly at Ellie and Awesome, who are positioned on either end, she realizes just how lucky she is. Just how fortunate. Because even though she's spent her life hiding from what she most wants, even though she's spent twenty years shielding herself from that which she most desires, somehow she's been given a second chance. Somehow, she's found herself in this amazing home, in the midst of these amazing people. In the midst of a real family. A family that's made her one of their own.

"A toast," Devon says, raising a glass frothing with eggnog. "To the best Christmas dinner I've ever had. Thanks, babe," he says, leaning in to kiss his wife.

Nodding, Jack raises his glass in turn. "To a terrific Christmas dinner," he agrees, winking at his daughter. "Thanks for the invitation."

"Any time," Ellie smiles. "It's great to meet Sarah's father," she glances warmly at the blonde. And then: "To being here with the people I love," she says, also raising her glass. "To being here with the people I care about."

"To the best Christmas I've ever had," Chuck chimes in, raising his glass and squeezing Sarah's hand as they exchange a loving look. "And to the best present I've ever gotten."

"To forgiveness," Sarah says softly, raising her own glass. "To family." _And to love_, she thinks as she squeezes Chuck's hand in return.

And then, because he's Chuck, and because he somehow always knows exactly what to say, he adds: "God bless us, Every One," and he grins at Sarah.

"I think I can drink to that," Sarah replies, unable to suppress the grin that spreads across her own face. And when everyone clinks glasses and the sounds of laughter and merriment spread through the bright, festive room, a surge of warmth floods her chest and she revels in the moment, being surrounded by people she loves and the family she's always wanted. And in that space of time, in the instant that she feels happiest, in the moment that she feels most at peace, she hears the sound of chains dropping to the ground, as if someone is finally breaking free of the restraints that have bound them for the last six months. "Good luck, Sarah," Bryce's voice wafts through the dining room air, unheard by anyone else but caressing Sarah's ears as they sound through her mind. "Be happy."

_You too, Bryce, _she thinks. _Thank you. Thank you for everything, _she finishes as she turns to Chuck and basks in the glow of his happy, radiant expression. The expression that she's longed to see for the last twenty years. The expression that means more to her than words can ever say.

After that night, Sarah Walker became a different woman. True, she still had to go on missions and she still had to defeat the Ring. There were still difficult times when she wasn't sure they were going to make it, and she worried for the safety of herself and those she loved, especially the man who had stolen her heart. But she never stopped fighting. She never gave up hope. And even though things weren't always easy, and Beckman wasn't always very cooperative, and Casey remained slightly impassive even when she still sensed signs of compassion behind his resilient grunts, she was able to overcome the obstacles. She was able to battle through the barriers. Because no matter how tough things got, no matter how hard she had to fight, she learned to rely on her feelings to get her through the difficulties. She learned to rely on her wisdom, on her heart, on her inner strength to get her past the trials, past the tribulations. She learned to rely on her love for Chuck to get her through it all.

And her relationship with the computer nerd blossomed. Never was Sarah happiest when she was with Chuck, never was she more at peace than when she was wrapped up in his embrace. And even though they had minor fights and meaningless squabbles, nothing was stronger than their love for each other. Nothing was stronger than the emotions that bound them together, that brightened their lives and touched their hearts. And when it was all over, and the Ring was defeated, Beckman was true to her word (after a little prodding from Sarah and a few more threats of nonexistent evidence), and Chuck and Sarah left the CIA and began a brilliant life together, free of the Intersect and of secrets and lies. And even though their existence was never quite normal, it was always unique and it was always full of love and happiness. For Sarah had truly found a life outside of the CIA. She had truly found an existence, a home, a family of her own.

It's important to add that Sarah never forgot the lessons she'd learned that Christmas Eve. She never forgot the shadows she had visited, the scenes she had witnessed, the memories she had been shown. And she never forgot the promise she'd made to the mother who continued to live on inside her heart. In fact, she discovered a world of peace inside herself, a world of happiness and love. She discovered that even though we get scared, even though we have moments of panic, what really matters is that we continue to love, we continue to grow, we continue to _live_.

You might also like to know that she had no further visits from Spirits after that night, no further lessons from shadows of her past, present and future. Even so, she was always said to celebrate Christmas better than anyone else. Through her, the spirit of the season truly shined and others were reminded of the importance of forgiveness, of family, and of love, for she embraced them all. May it be said of all of us that we remember these values, these _gifts_ as well as Sarah Walker. May it be said of all of us that we celebrate Christmas just as well. And so, as Chuck Bartowski observed, God bless us, Every One!


End file.
